In His City

I sit within the realm of a writer,

One touched by time, but who’s name remains on alters.

The dwelling place remains afoot,

Stewing in the words he wrote;

The people wander, no wonder anymore,

But as a new face I can hear his splendor.

I beg the air, I borrow space,

A breath of inspiration in this wake,

I steal no magic but for time,

He has dug up from the earthen rhymes.

This land speaks clearly, with leafy tongue,

He knew it well, I wish to sing a rendition of his song.

I thank him for his share of home,

And thank the home for making me its own.