Three weeks have gone by
In this wasteland industry sprawl
Perhaps outside the city
There resonates a cultured tune.
Perhaps.
There are customs within words and
In the heart and soul of everyman
There is a tradition mapped out
By the circumstance
That dictates a nation’s sadness.

And none too soon
Could the song of sadness be sung
Than a century’s end
And the infancy of a new era
Whilst down on one’s knees
And arms, in the air, flung
A city is razed
Then raised to the skies
Dictating a nation's sadness.