This is not a love poem.

This is the condensation
of lost love.
This is the track
without a train,
leading into the promised land.

And my obligation
to you, as I swore;
an oath,

To backtrack,
across the plains;
no mind for blisters
on feet, on rocky tracks.

Goodbye, Rome,
but no, I bring you with me,
to my home. Into the shelter
of my abode.

I make you tea for two.

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