There is nothing I can write about you
Without making you sound like a lost lover
But perhaps that is the truth,
We were lovers the way truth and art have lovers,
In the way you can hear nothing but traffic all day, and yet be a music lover,
See nothing but buildings all day and yet be a tree lover.
And if they should ban song
Or cut all the trees,
What would I be to you?
And what you be to me,
Without that walk in the shade of giant samanias,
Without its memory, set to the music of a lost friendship?