I have grown accustomed to you, city —
to your straight and quiet streets,
to simple words, to simple ways
of meeting those one meets

You learned a lot about me here.
You learned what brought me through,
the places where I used to live,
the things I loved and knew

I told you of my younger years,
of roads that had no end,
of voices I can still recall,
of strangers and of friends

You learned the songs I used to play,
the books I used to read,
the foolish things I once believed,
the things I thought I would need

You watched me build another life
from unfamiliar days —
new windows, faces, morning light,
new habits, words and ways

And slowly you became less strange.
A street became my street.
I learned where evening shadows fall,
where friends and rivers meet

You never asked me why I came
Perhaps you understood
Some questions wait behind the words
because no answer could

But there is one you never asked,
one thing I never told:
What happened to my Garden?
What happened to the Old?