Take me back to Italy
where you will make a different choice
and I will speak with my own voice
the words you could not receive,
did not believe,
for I have held them through these years
and let them live through all the tears.
Take me back
to Italy.

I am back in Italy.
I write last letter from my cell,
so much still left to say, to tell.
You were and are man of your word --
no lines are blurred --
and yet you claimed it as your own,
leaving to now no unturned stone,
left me there
in Italy.

I can't go back to Italy,
though mem'ry fades as that last rose
you brought me, though not one soul knows
what happened but the morning birds
who have no words.
Nor do I.
Yet still this story lives within,
and I wish to begin again
whether here
or Italy.

There is no back to Italy
as it is here, not there, present,
tense, loving message we both sent
that life and light might be restored
love unleashed, poured
as healing rain replenishing.
I see now: we are finishing
what began
in Italy.