Approaching Budapest (Again)
by Theodora Goss

City of my heart, I am flying to you at a hundred
miles an hour, while below you lie dreaming,
wearing the Danube like a sash around your ball gown,
the one you fell asleep in last night, or was it during
the last century, when you went waltzing
with Vienna, one of those oom-pah-pah waltzes.
You are beautiful in your long sleep, like the princess
in the rose garden protected by thorns.
I will not wake you up, I don’t think anyone
could wake you up now, unless perhaps History
comes along once again, prancing on his black horse
or riding a tank, the way he has a hundred times
before, mowing down both thorns and roses.
But for today at least, may you dream on
among your spires and cupolas, a vision
of green water and sunlit stone, and the linden trees
that spread their perfume over the city parks,
with the bees buzzing (in Hungarian).

(The image is Lady Sleeping by Franciszek Zmurko.)