How much water has flown past,
since someone pulled the trigger
and a young man fell dead
into the Danube:
the father of my father’s father.
How many billions of river water drops
has swallowed the sea since
another man, another time,
rescued drowning children:
My father’s father.
Where on the globe is now flowing the water
that on this picture here
embraces the knees of a youngster,
my father, who seems to say
"Come on in; the water's fine."
The Danube has flown and flown,
I thought, standing on its banks.
And under my heart fluttered,
for the first time, like a little fish,
his grandson.
The Danube rumbles, crawls,
swells, soaks and oozes,
it kills and gives birth,
but always remains.
We go by.
EN 
MK