Warm mornings,
Always sunny,
With dark, bitter coffee
And cake.

And every street
Was oh so beautiful,
And every corner held
A new work of art,
A new memorial
Of love.

It was a city of commemoration,
Of celebration,
And the words and thoughts
Of history's greatest minds
Lined every sun swept street.

I wanted to map the city
With my fingertips,
Trace my thumb along each
Now familiar tram line
And rest my palm over the centre,
Claiming it as mine.

By sunset, those streets,
So dear to me in the space of only
A few summer days,
Unfurled, spread bare before me –
A kingdom of artists
And thieves like me,
Basking in the art of that place
With an air of nonchalance,
To thinly disguise the most profound

I wanted to drink every drop
In that ocean of splendour,
And I wanted to breathe in the dust
Of even the underground trains.

And when I left, I felt a painful kind of sadness –
The sort of sadness one feels
Upon leaving home.

So I suppose that
The old song was right,
Its words as honest as words can be.
I feel it in my bones even now;
That city was always waiting for me.