I walk these streets to see you
How you must have reeled
Up old Ruminic
A cheery wave for the Crossing crowd
Through the market stalls on Centre Street
A sharp turn south upon the Plaza

With Lance's shots still warming you innards
Along, within, Shadya's undulations
How you hurled on your way 'cross the Canal
How delightfully blearily famished it made you
Down on Amadeo's kebabs like a wolf on the fold
Down to the orchards, back to the music

I walk these streets to hear you
The girl who never learned about the black and purple
Who was never hauled through laboratory yards
Who was never strapped down, starved and analyzed
Who never bled before she became a woman
To hear shrieks and sighs of pure delight instead of screams

And I think you might've met a pretty boy
A Satyri bard with words and chords like molasses
And I think you might've dyed your black hair gold
Laid your dirk and whip aside for tea and crystals
With no Dark Father's grace but a real and loving father
With no gutter for a nurse but a soft, indulgent mother

I walk these streets to rid myself of you
The sweet-eyed Virtuosi cadet
Who learned to laugh and simper
Whose tears and bruises were always kissed away
So they never could leave a lasting stain
So they never could harden into armour

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Glacian, in the year 965 AF.