Where Did They Go, Those Truly Ancient Nations?

 

Those ancient lanes,
Those ancient routes,
Where rushing through
Would be a mortal sin.

Those whom one meets there
Are rare—
One of a kind—

Making one wonder
What has become
Of the timeless awe
Within the modern heart.

There one goes
To clear and cleanse
One’s senses
And one’s mind,

Far enough
From the capital,
Its fevers
And its glut.

And what
Of the Muses,
Whose memory
Has faded?

But there,
Alone
And out beneath the open sky,

Thought lends
Its quiet tune,

And brighter,
Deeper,

A sky rises
Above the cranes,

Just as time ripens
Enough to ask:

“Tell me—
What is truly
Capital in life?”