|
The city I am |
|
My alleys veins, my water nurture |
|
Nobody need stand on ceremony before my doors |
|
I am a home to you |
|
And to them |
|
Of ashes they come |
|
In sackcloth cloaked |
|
Much was told of me |
|
Listen to my names, different by tongue |
|
A rose by any other name smells just as sweet |
|
The banners flying in the wind over my towers |
|
Purposeless |
|
I have no flag, no religion |
|
No loyalty |
|
I harbour all but stand for none |
|
A waver, declaring my immunity |
|
Diaspora |
|
The one without religion inside the dogma |
|
Listen to those long gone |
|
It is they who are loyal to me |
|
Those in sackcloth |
|
And those who yearn for me |
|
Some are pious, some cater to whims, |
|
Some provoke |
|
But I am a labyrinth of layers |
|
Find only sense |
|
Without a compass |
|
For the city I am |