A short poem in Salzburg

We are again way-faring strangers not yet sure of where we might by nightfall belong. 

Others before us strapped tambourines to their hips and bells to their shoes so that music rattled instead of bones and a songs were born from their constant roving.

Others before us walked to the sound of church bells- a promise of warmth and an open door.

The world is always changing but the rovers will always rove.  


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