Pulsating with methodical hum.
Purposeful, yet without the desperation a’common ‘cross the pond.
A paradox of birth and dust.
The city is at once born anew each day, flowering in lively hope,
from dark and Troubled past,
Sprouts of Bartsia reach for the sun.
Backdropped by ruins,
A city without time
Hallowed halls and crackling walls.
A city living neighbor to the moors.
and calling you, with it’s lovely blue doors.