I knew, that I had to leave;
and you knew, that you had to stay.
I knew that your Mother would grieve;
you told me, it’d be better that way.
I knew, that I had to leave;
but you knew, that you dared not go.
Where once, our daffodils bloomed,
now, concrete towers grow.
I knew, that I had to leave;
but you, you begged me to stay.
I warned you, I would not cleave;
you said that I would, anyway.
I warned you, I would not leave;
but you, you picked up, and left.
You burned my trees quite often:
whatever was once, was cleft.
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