At The End Of My Travels

I came upon you, empty city:

I didn’t even know your name.

I knew your streets were coarse, but pretty;

your steeple had basked in red-hot flame.

I preyed upon your altar, then:

your cobblestones, I ate with the spiderwebs.

I marched upon your open palazzos,

with steel toes and minuets.

I would’ve drank from your fountains, two:

too bad I didn’t bring a cup.

I bathed in your sunlit gardens;

and your prisons, I shook them up.

Your brothels and your cigarettes,

I carved into the hollow of my skin.

I took a dab of oyster juice,

for the port, and the sea, within.

I tarried longer by the market:

in its autumn, I espoused a feast.

I wanted olives for the baker;

all I managed was dry yeast.

Evening came, and then I scurried:

I was swept away by glove-dealers, astride.

My carcass, they dropped a bridge, it under;

but my songs, they hummed with pride.

Daniel Viragh