Old troubadors remain
Their songs the ages greet
Some speak of tragic ills
And others sound so sweet.
They go with horse of years
At pace not hurried so
They play a fiddle’s tears
And hum what we don’t know.
The face is weathered, lined
Some roads they did not take
Til saw familiar signs
And lodged so warm, they’d bake.
And friends were made right quick
For whist or whittling glad
Occasionally fell sick
But never dreadfully bad.
Comments
Post a Comment