The Troupe and the clear waters:
Autumn winds blew gently past the polish peak,
Signalling the villages of the fun filled week.
Pictures of the tatra mountains filled the reels,
Rafting against the currents of dunajec,
Arriveth the troupe.
Rain fell hard when they were pitching their tents,
Earthly smell spread out and the animals letting out grunts.
They burnt the oil till late night with their preparations,
Lit the midnight fires and danced to forget the toil.
“Shadow of our sun stays bright in our heart,
Its just the light on the sky that fades with the dusk,”
Said the old man to his crew.
Smileth the old man,
masking his hunger.
Speaketh the old man,
Words that cheered his starving troupe.
Smileth the old man,
Poking at his snout.
Arriveth behind the stage,
Adorning pink corduroy
Curtains rose to the madrigals,
Higher the octaves hit, higher the curtains went.
Arriveth the man with the scarlet snout,
White paint spread across his face,
Striped trousers, Yellow belt,
Hidden tricks in his sleeves.
Arriveth! The master of this opus.
Beneath the colossal marquee lay the animals,
All loyal followers of their master.
Behind the curtain lay the clown,
Children screaming for this master,
Master of joy!
Seated on the carpeted floors are those lieutenants,
All loyal servants to their nation.
With their muzzles dug into the mud,
With the sergeants laughing their hearts out,
Cheering with their families are those
Masters of valor.
The bells chiming,
Acids churning,
Neon-lamps burning ,
And Fires blazing,
Wheels in clock start turning,
The clown was leaning,
Starts his juggling,
With the children clapping,
Little girls somersaulting,
Langurs swinging
When the lion’s roaring,
Oh! It was chaos reigning.
The girls switched from one bar to another,
Clutching them were those little boys,
Ooo! The crowd went at their finesse moves,
Step by step the clown climbed up the ladder,
Jumped from fifty feet into a five feet wide pool,
Whistles and claps,
Cheers and screams,
All for the master of joy!
The troop and the colored waters:
Over the burnt bodies that looked like sculptures of ashes,
he walked,
They all crumbled on his touch.
Over a heap of skulls piled on this hill turned into hell,
he walked,
Grieving of his lost bastion.
No one to salute for our men
Who drenched our flag with their blood.
No one to shed tears for our men,
Who severed their joys for our liberty.
Oh! The poor clown,
What hath come on you?
Tears on your cheek is an oddity.
Oh! Apostle of joy,
You lived your life
joining the hearts sliced by cruelty.
Metamorphosis:
The ruthless silence, you let it pass.
The ferocious smile, you let it wane.
The rancid truth, you let it ingest.
….
