Farhad, oh, Farhad, I know where you are. You're down at Lake Paran, you're swimming for the dock, where you'll listen to the families bickering, then go back to my old house, where you'll find Henry drinking with Liz, Simon, and Tim, and several other friends of his.

Farhad, oh, Farhad, I know what you eat. Pineapple, chicken and cold Sunny D, like the farewell party that you threw for me. I can still taste your rice, I can taste your chutney, and that night we played Boggle and smoked on the porch and I never felt so right.

Farhad, oh, Farhad, I know how you write. Your nines look like gs and your s's are tight. But the stuff of the letters you send my way, they give me hope, make me long for a day like the days when you lay in my bed modestly turned away.

Farhad, oh, Farhad, I know where you are. You're down at Lake Paran, the moon's almost gone, and you'll swim your frustrations and swim your angst. Maybe if you swim enough, you might swim them away and away, away and away, like steps on a mountain face.