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Discovering a new love, the love that was once within me departs, creating love for the new element. This is a true experience I had while leaving Budapest.

Good bye, Budapest

174434ca63a83814c4db9fa3acaec65fby Andrew Ryan11 Mar 2015

Willfully you dance as a stranger to me

As you hear the voice of death and life

And see visions of masterpiece love in

The bike-tire chandelier in the ruin bar.

We thank our Selves for appearing

In our days.

The train is parting our grip as it departs

From an open window.

You are my love, but the wind still blows.

I'd love him to express his art in longing,

Like i do so now, to be messenger;

To tell you like no letter can—

Angle of fortune and grammar,

We are wind,

We whip around our Selves

We shape our eyes

We play upon the thrown of all our experiences

And by casting a web of good condition around

Each contradictory, we disperse wholesome spells

As wind lifts young spiders to an unknown sphere.

The chatter of the Hungarian rails

Rocks me into your distant arms.

No one bothers me, there is no one aboard but me.

I cross my arms and sink into my seat,

Dreaming to the distant land within me.

Peace is broken by a presence without.

I have not woken up, I am still here.

But he is newly there, old as stone.

The man before me clothed in white rags

That have not been cut and stitched

But ripped and wrapped, unwashed.

He looks at me with hardly intention,

As if he were not actually before me.

The train plunges along unsteadily, but he stands

On tarnished feet without wavering,

Yet by his condition he could be perished.

Slowly he moves into my compartment

Breaking no lines of vision, for his eyes

Are not fixed in his head, but about his mind.

He easily chooses his seat across from me,

Facing backward to our direction of moment.

With no design to alarm,

Only to defend the secret that i share with the wind,

I sit up larger and pull my book, pen, and bread,

Accumulating the items, amassing the strength

To dispel any spell he casts against me in tongue or glance.

I touch the small bag of pogácsa you sent off with me

He bursts forward with an outstretched limb

With the surge of a gale,

Shrouded in soiled while cloth, ripped not cut,

toward me.

I am meeting him, the man who carries this message.

He scares me like death and life,

And looks for only a bite to eat to ease his everlasting task

And the pain he carries to all the distant lovers who are

Deserted.

I don't find the courage to give him what he wants.

I cannot.

Despite his hunger he departs,

Carrying the message he found written among my fears

To all the lovers who have sparked my heart and now fade in it

Because of you.