Open streets so ragged in their years,
The scent of culture and the fading time,
A waft of old books is ever overwhelmed
By the smell of fresh bread.
Or at least such tales in all their rhymes,
Ever cling to this city like musty spells,
It is becoming and so old, so sacred yet unclean,
The halls ascend in green and pale,
The gold to kiss the hallowed heads of many saints,
But there a turn and all is freshly new,
That man would clothe himself in splendour yet remain unchanged,
He is the same beneath unless so humbly touched.

To celebrate so fine a brother,
A card and gift will not suffice,
But thanks to Him and praise to God,
And though it falls so short of it:
Firm words and merry birthdays wished,
A jig and game and laugh with bliss.

The stream runs hushed, knock knock!
I stand beside - my Lord persists,
We're gated firm from rushing thought,
His hope diffused in my heart now,
Persistence grasps a deeper root I pray.