Abroad Too Long
Walking down the cobbled street,
Wondering distantly how old those stone were
And looking with disinterest at the cathedrals,
And the columns and arches that rise
Like a great garden of stone flowers
That I cannot pick.
Hearing the muted strains of a violin
From some unseen corner where some unseen
Frustrated musician is playing for forints,
And I feel the sorrow in each strike of the bow
Reverberate against my tired bones
In a sepulchral strain.
Thoughtlessly tossing pebbles into the river,
Then realizing I am tossing coins,
So I pour out my purse with melancholic abandon
And let the river have its fun,
Because I have had my fill of it,
And want only to go home.