It’s a song. At least that’s what I hear. The composers whose names mark the streets. Bartók Béla. Liszt Ferenc. And the historic OperaHouse. The beauty of a symphony of brilliance that is lost in the hunt for more and so the world misses.
I see the tourists who stop for a day or two on a cruise along the Danube. They snap pictures of the beauty outside that I love too. But I want them to know that there is a soul. And do they hear it singing? Do I hear?
The lament is too often what pierces the silence of isolated lives. It’s a broken line of generations, of history that speaks no other word but tragedy. It evokes, this somber horned durge, all of the questions of the reality of a good God. Of one who remembers those who are oppressed.
And the song it is carried on the backs of the drooping shoulders and the trudging to the next. It’s sung in the countryside with an upbeat folk flare that pair its dancing steps as well. It’s in gulyas (the real way to spell goulash :) and paprikás csirke (paprika chicken) and lots of duck and goose liver. There’s a light sparking in eyes when you ask about the culture and the history. It’s a proud song that would not stop its singing, its lament, its celebration no matter the siege.
And this makes me listen intently for the song of resurrection. The one of the Easter people who have Hallelujah as their song.When I hear the church on the hill gong the hour and see the few faithful who have believed when you were not allowed and yet how can you stop the heart from beating? I want to burst in song on the streets and call out to this people, this nation boldly saying that the light has shown through decades of darkness and it cannot be overcome. Hallelujah.