If you're lost and you're hungry, she takes you for the night, Lets you read every inch of her and try to make sense of her rhymes, You study all the creases, the longing in each and every line, And you'll never know the answer, but you still can't help but try.
She takes you by the arm, and teaches you things you never knew, She talks of revolution, but there's romance somewhere at the root, She wades through fire and empire, but slowly sings the sweetest tune, And asks you what you're waiting for, and opens herself to you.
In Autumn she's most pretty, she lends all her colour and her light, To the endless rows of buildings that reach to the endless grey skies, She feeds you fresh fruit, and fine, expensive Georgian wine And you treasure all her good days, because you know that the end's in sight.
The snow steals the colour, and her coldness takes the rest, She whispers broken English, leaves you reaching for her dress, And dulls all of your senses, as you cry for everything you left, By the morning you'll feel better, but you still can't shake the loneliness.
On many evenings later, though the outlines will be rough, Her image will be clear, press against you just enough, Between the streets you walked, and the snowfall from above, Something will always hold you, and perhaps it's even love.