From atop an old stone rampart,
   one's head within the clouds,
 one expects to see an old oxcart
   through that foggy shroud.

But down below, the modern day:
   buses, cafes, and cars.
 I turn my head the other way,
   and the world 's as it was:

Back in the times when that fortress
   was besieged and battered,
 and nothing moved freely but for
   a flag -- singed and tattered. 

There's a certain romantic view
   of long-gone days of old,
 but I think I'll be heading down
   before I catch a cold.