The Stranger

By chance,
mistaken, wandering wrong,
I stumbled again
upon that road of childhood—
the crooked lane,
long forgotten,
suddenly returned like a spark
to a weary mind.
 
Yet now it is changed.
At the end once stood
my beloved,
her quiet figure pacing
the rooftop in silence—
that house still stands,
but the tender terrace,
the spell of love,
is gone.
 
On this side I remain,
a pauper of memory,
wandering in search
of what can never return.
 
Each face I meet is new,
each manner unfamiliar.
Perhaps they think of me
as I think of myself—
a needless presence,
a relic of the past,
an ancient stranger
out of place.