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 In your bosom we wake up with fear,
In your sky there’s only unending tears,
You always roar, but within,
Hangs silence like a shroud of death.
You are rocked, periodically, by bombs, Yet, we go about our business, As if nothing happened, all’s well, Are we too dazed to protest? In your hungry, convoluted entrails, Lie pauper and millionaire, Separated only by the whimsy, Of your very partial benevolence.
On your skyline of sooty chimneys, Decaying concrete, bristling antennas, Are the sad stories of fortunes, Made and lost, just as lost loves.
City of gold, they say, which never sleeps, Will you stay awake, tonight, Wipe away our cascading tears, And give our tired bodies some sleep?

by John Matthew
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