Königswinter
On top of the hill
engulfed by sycamore maples
sits Schloss Drachenburg
Pale blue spires, mahogany bricks
and flourishing trimmed lawns
All like an icicle it seemed,
so tapering and cold
The rigid rain spit softly at us
as we found refuge
at a hole in the wall diner
Kaffe bitte, in shivering German
as the raindrops trickled down the stained glass
like tears of a travelor
leaving their foreign land behind
Your cobbled streets
prosperous pear trees
and doors that push, not pull
is what I adore
of that German town on the Rhine
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