Selma

The end of lovely days, honour her great freedom, a scimitar hand of fate, for the cafe's and diners, who take their nights ease, under yellow electric lights, not your village maze, these hardened streets, caught between wreaths of shame, Our lady bides her time, she knows these sweet seasons, eves with a little wine, where debts get paid, beneath cooling trees, blue air in cigar subways, no matter what they say nothing will release, love for that other place, why she crossed the sea.