This second city is still a mystery.
For all its purported beauty,
Its sparkle pales when compared to former loves.
Its laughter saccharine,
Its energy lacking.
What could it possibly be?
Is it the violence that seethes beneath:
Haunting the underground,
Miasmically rising into the streets?
Is it the boreal lake breeze:
Constructing divides,
Partitioning minds?
This second city is still not home.
For all its cosmopolitan allure,
These skyscrapers harangue vehemently.
Their magnificence hollow,
Their architecture preening.
What causes this desolation?
Is it the river’s curious hue:
Tainted sickly,
A victim of industry?
Is it the specter of history:
The raw flames of rebirth,
Fanned by corrupted victories?
This second city is still a mystery
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