In Moscow or London, in Paris or New York
I see you noble, lordly; my “me” forever yearns
To hold you in the subway, to give my force and skills
To her, who smells of summer, whose eyes and words could kill.
The subway stations tarry, your eyes – they laugh and sing;
In Norway or America, the truth is so simple:
You’re Queen of all that’s noble, and beautiful, and right.
Forgive me all the nonsense and poetry tonight.