Will he come, my Venetian suitor, to tell me one last time, 'Stay, Senora, stay! Why do you need to travel? You are home wherever you are. Let me be your courtyard, your titled roof.' Will he come, my Venetian suitor, smelling of gardenia? Will he outrun the chugging train, my Venetian suitor? He runs the length of the empty platform, towards me, caged in the iron embraced of this inevitable departure. Renato! Renato! Look, there is a bunch of gardenia in his hand; the bargain of my love, already given to him, unasked. Will I catch the bunch of gardenia he flings at me? Renato! Renato! He screams beneath the screech of the train's whistle. He wants the train to stop. He wants me to stop. He wants this moment to stop. He wants me catch the bunch of gardenia. Could I? Could I? Why did I leave before the end?