The crown of horned beasts lie on the crossing’s
heart. The crossing of the crescent moon, sparkling
star, and crossed-spires. The crown lay broken and
beaten but its thorns emerge, from time’s
passing the crosses converge.

The twin spires lay grandiosely on its banks,
of rivers thinned by crying waters and
sinking lands. The tears are blue, but the
eyes are gold, its arching bridges stay bold.

The treasure’s home remains married to its
east, guarded once by blazing beasts and
honored by its sparkling sound. It remains
with the house of hope, as the crescent moon
and shining star slide down its slope.

What light it brings to a sleeping child,
What darkness it hides from a searching soul.

The city remains high, and with time,
its river quietly runs by.