Paris
January 23, 2015
She's the most populous city,
France hath need of thee.
Situated on the Seine River, she stands tall.
The night was young and so was she,
Stars glistened as the moon rose above thee.
Thou hast a voice whose sound was like a windy tree,
Majestic, kind, soft, and free.
But in those narrow streets, Mother Earth is littered by us.
Ah but this isn't an accident, no
As the dark creeps over her she slowly falls.
When the morning comes she awakes, not aware of the night before.
Never did the sun more beautifully steep,
O'er the tall peak soaring in the sky.
It's no longer cold, the air is crisp and clean,
No longer littered by her past.
Never have I saw or felt more calm around her,
But as all good things come to an end:
Sadly it will be her turn again.
And as all things repeat in life,
I'll never forget her effort and how she gave her best to help life.
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