Music

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.