WHAT I WAS TOLD BY A TRAVELER FROM THE EAST by John Horvath Jr


WHAT I WAS TOLD BY A TRAVELER FROM THE EAST

Never let it be said we grew ashamed

to weep over grand sorrows —

butterflies never seen beneath clouds

of coal soot on gray mornings when gray

women move through valleys between gray

stolid buildings sturdy as communism

itself, built to last forever. Whoring

too is a rebellion; it reeks of soured

law untouched like bad milk along back-

streets that even the starving reject.

It is never cold in my country where

sunrise greets each morning. Once

in the black coal I saw a diamond

winking from the midst of warm flames.

As you see, my hands are not burnt.

endpoem copyright John Horvath Jr

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