It was meant to be something like soaring
Through the countrysides of Spain
Through to Rome, by neon-light

Too often, reveries reoccur
Of the train-yards hustling,
The rain -swept streets of the world,
Of a cafe’s steam
Calling out, to the shroud of a city

There
In that young frame of mind
I am always
Alive and in love

There, I am bright and naive
Unaware of the life and the labor
Of this bountiful craft

There is and there will always be
So much more