Come, let us walk through the valley.
Where the corpses of trees and flowers lie.
Where the memories of what we loved come to die.
Sing sweet little nothings to me, as our essence pools in the alley.
Gleefully we used to prance and dance about.
Now nothing but glimmers of the past
Reflect dimly against the canal’s waters, and at last
We can sing and play and laugh again, but don’t shout.
Trotting off to some other poor sod’s garden
To stamp on his baby olive tree.
To uproot his rosebushes, all twenty-three.
Hollering we departed, after we heard a “pardon?”
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