Family tree

In front of the Jewish Synagogue in Budapest
It stands erect,
only its branches weep.
Broad they emerge from its trunk,
their tips chopped, yet the leaves,
a silver waterfall, cascades to the ground.
Where its foot touches the earth,
no roots are stretched out.
And if you dig the soil you will find
none underground.
Tree without roots,
Its metallic leaves shimmering in the sun,
Granting eternal life to those who are gone,
will never change colors, wither or die.

In front of the Jewish Synagogue in Budapest,
Under the tree of life,
I search for the leaves that are mine.
Aching to reassemble, uncles and aunts,
 young kids and babies alike.
Did I hear their names, whispered,
in the murmur of the wind .
  streams of silver, evoking dancing lights,

and the rasp of metal, touching metal.