I miss the towers and the temples;
their glories and their aspirations,
the rain that falls with grace,
tin blessing upon silver sorrow.

Your brave face and proud streets
of tiny champions keeping pace,
along the Boulevard uncommon hopes,
chastised follies and wispy fears.

Within you the songs of forests,
rivers as soft and long as dreams;
and longer still the path I wander
returns once parted, now loved anew.

To long for home, my boughs and wonder,
reciting names of those surrendered.
How can the homesick hope to recover
their sense of steeple, croft and thunder?

To the soul now lost which held benighted,
the keys to home and all else inside it.
From one who raged, my worth derided;
I remained when you departed.