Patarei Prison, Tallinn
The Mute
Sándor Kányádi
from Dancing Embers
At times I still hear infants'
marrow-piercing howl.
Europe speaks in many chords.
Not only the muses of Helicon but
the babies thrown off Mount Taygetus
deafened the gods of fate.
The millennia of howling,
the plucking of harps and zithers,
the beating of drums,
the roar of bells and engines,
the shelling and the bombing,
have blasted out an atmospheric
pressure cave,
rendering us hard of hearing. Taygetus has taken root in us. Our shoelaces can undo themselves.
All it takes is one hard look, the wave of a hand,
and we fall in line, dumb and numb,
some with head held high, some deeply bent,
but we all obey the call.
There was a deaf-mute living next door,
a real hard-working beast of burden,
they'd kept his nose to the grinding stone
till he turned into one.
When the Spartan Home Security came to pick
him up though, he earned a place in history:
he grabbed a pitchfork and started
to kick, bite and claw
like he used to as an infant,
and he howled too, but as an adult.
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