A city of steel, colder than this winter
Built on a hell, of habitable cinder
Fire too close, to be of comfort
Frost too far, to be on alert
Sleeping so soundly, in comfortable servitude
Serving so blindly, with tainted rectitude

Outside of this city, is where we dwell
Wolves of all kinds, molded by hell
Burned and hardened, by the hand of a blacksmith
Not godly or gargantuan, like the monsters of myth
So clean is our cold air, by God’s loving command
So noxious is their smoke, by the flames they fanned

Inside of the city, there dwells a lion
Sleeping under a roof, not the Belt of Orion
Caged by bars, by the hand of a silversmith
Glamorous and adulated, like a creature of myth
Howling to crowds, but not the Moon
Meals on a platter, served at high noon

In spite of the city, the wolves still hunt
Men raising warriors, women nursing runts
Scorned and belittled, so often our condition
Flames of salvation, fanned by our tradition
Pierced by frost, so far from the slums
And warmed by the Sun, when it comes

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