Hungary calling

The evening sun heels over behind the hills,

projects a shadow that smoothes them to sandiness.

The beckoning arms of timber have disappeared

from the slopes above the road where refugees tramp.

In Hungary’s bloodlands Eichmann found willing help;

The arc of the moral universe bent away.

Now refugees face razor wire and stark rifles.

Why do evil to these persecuted people?
The weakest ask Job’s question and limp like Jacob.