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oh, my city, it is burning
oh, my city, it is burning
and the flame, it is a restless child
swallowing to smoke the ancient loves
on which we built our lives
not to topple, not to crumble, not to ashen be

oh, my road, it is winding
oh, my road, it is winding
and it winds around my oaken heart
tethering me to a country i--
i have come to love
with a restless love, a reckoned wonder, a sad disdain

oh, my story is unfolding
oh, my story is unfurling
and it is not the story i would have
chiseled on the stone of my day
no, it is written on a city that is burning
with a road that is unraveling

and it is spoken on the tongue of a love
who is burning for another . . .

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peter j hochstedler Lansing, Michigan

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