Spellbinding music,
Cordant and whole,
Filling my ears
And stirring my soul.

Faraway places
Mind's eye can see
The music has
Brought them close to me.

Crackling fires,
Wisps of grey smoke,
Vagabond camp
Of some gypsy folk.

Close by the fire
Sits an old bard.
His dark features marked
By life long and hard.

In his withered hand,
An old violin,
Placed reverently
Beneath his chin.

One lingering note
Floats off with the smoke,
The camp becomes
Hushed, the wild folk
Gather around him
To hear the old songs
Of homeland and heartland-
For every soul longs 
To see it once more.
The old fiddle sings
Of bygone times.
The melody rings
Sweet, sad and clear,
Songs of their pain,
Cries from the shores
They won't see again.

Out of my vision
I wake with a start,
I have no place
In these peoples' heart.

I have no place in
The songs of their home,
I do not walk
The roads that they roam.

I must go my way,
They must go theirs,
Apart, save for
What everyone shares-
The longing for some
Home, for a place
That through a song we
Can see face-to-face.


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