Mountain air as sweet as wine,
Stone layers forested in pine;
These are another's words, not mine,
And it is she that they indeed define.

She basks in a light that's all her own,
From newly paved streets to ones of cobblestone;
From her blackest of nights to glorious days,
Halos of holiness blanket her mazes.

For those who love her, she does treasures unveil,
And if you will hear it, she'll tell you her tale:
How she fought for her children, tooth and nail,
So that she could newcomers hail.

You'll hear it in her winds' faint sighs,
Her buses' roar, her peddlers' cries:
How long she's suffered through the false claims and lies
Of the ones afraid to see her rise.