Down to the main street, missing passers-by,
Walks out Attila; the street to him - a field,
The people - rye,
Who on this field of asphalt give their yield
And demonstrate their round Roman shield.
He walks along the bakers, and the banks,
Avoides the togas; mission his is clear,
And in his ranks,
The soldiers, knowing neither fear
Nor pity, steer of locals clear.
His own displacement taught him in good time
Not reason; acting by his instinct and
Fortuna's rhyme,
He leads his men, a wooden bow in hand,
To set their seeds onto the promised land.
Back in his home, the captured Romans spoke
About their land - as clean and blue as sky,
Rome knows no smoke;
And even the rare merchant passing by
Described Rome's busy streets as Heaven's eye.
The bankers, clerks, dont bother him a glance,
A migrant walking with an ugly tear -
A chance,
That their life's business and it's cheer
Might be distorted by a foreign spear.
The years go by as he walks down the street
Lost and confused; where is the fleet of gold,
The shining fleet?
A traffic master shoves him with a scold;
A young boy overtakes him, blonde and bold.
His loyal Hunns turn into ghosts, then shadows;
Alas, the city square! The Rubicon is breached,
There stand the gallows;
Untrue, all words that have been preached!
And now, he knows, the Holy Land is reached.
