In Memoriem

I am the same as the same I was to my Mother
when everyday, denying the morning
she used to mumble
while looking directly into the sky
crooked, dark and lewd
after the XXth century metamorphosis
she would cry out:
'mind the mockingbird, it is the way to see differently'
and I was still the same
as the same I was to my father
who, denying the fact that his wife,
that old widow, still mumbled,
asked nobody
to share the photos of his very own funeral
but despite that he sometimes remembered
himself, whistling in the melody
of the Hymn of Austro-hungary:
'mind the leaves of mahogany tree, my son,
it is the way to love and be loved'
but I was still the same
and I am--

three mockingbirds whistling and crying
on the branch of mahogany