A fine day has come 

to get reacquainted with 

a city once loved 

We celebrate the 

killers, from buccaneers to

bombers, without shame 

Your bruised knuckles mean

nothing but inner turmoil

loosed upon the world 

These millstones meant for

feeding us now heavily 

hang around our necks 

It'll turn on a 

dime like cash slipping through a 

hole in your pocket 

Rustling leaves and small

waves breaking on water's edge

bring serenity 

Let the sun burn off

the mist to reveal mountains,

distant, beckoning