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New York City

She calls to me,
This wonderful old girl,
With her hair upswept,
And her banners unfurled.

Her skirts are wide,
With diversified pleats,
Accented by peoples
Who march to her beats.

Her breath is of heaven,
And history of old,
Her eyes filled with hurt,
And of stories untold.

Her hands they do beckon,
Their calluses rough,
To come share the lives,
Of her meek and her tough.

Ah, New York City,
With your siren call,
We rush to your side,
That you should not fall.

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