Mata was born one Sunday
in 1940 something
father didn't even know about him
when he returned from the Way of the Cross
They lived so, modestly but proudly
in a village, small, quaint, Slavonian,
village women didn't love him
when he walks down the row, they pull the curtains shut
And I, I can see him now still,
returning the horses to the stables
the village talks, Mata doesn't care
he just drives the horses faster
And then 1990 arrived
father said, it's now or never
so Mata went, like in a dream
without a thing to his name, but with a big heart.
That winter, they killed his brother
burned his village, took the horses,
they found the father after a month or two
great sorrow broke him.
I was with Mata last Sunday
by the church after the morning mass,
with him his son and his brother's children,
"Where are you Mata! How are you?" I ask
He says, everything will be as before
the village will decorate the house gates again,
we will get everything back, but one thing never
the memories that disappeared from us.