A thoroughfare with tree made arcs
The smell of berries fills the air,
Colours a many, both light and dark,
of flowers on the streets of Sinclair.
Tells of tales of a thousand years
Of mother and sisters who learnt to love,
Fathers and brothers who met as friends,
and freed the dew kissed bright white dove.
Little taps of toddlers’ feet,
leave a mark on the fresh green grass
The cold winds caressing you,
As the warm month of June falls through.
Wake does one to this wondrous time,
to feel the chill up in the air.
To wish for better for one and all,
on the fair streets of Sinclair.
Fables of old that have never changed,
of bustling roads and horses reined
Ambling down with Kings and Queens,
and many more of common kind.
There once was a war at night,
angry men who came to fight.
To bend the will of the city-folk,
And take away their kindred light.
Confront they did the merry men,
in middle of the city street.
All they found waiting there,
was defeat and anguish unlike anywhere.
Hard to fathom, it does sound so,
For how a city can be so fair.
To make the people bright and tough,
on the streets of Sinclair.
And so it goes with beautiful things,
they are fought for by one and all,
Some are told to always be,
and others never once, or for all.
How must one speak of this place?
When words fall short of its grace.
Find new verses we must now,
To talk some more of its glory days.
Come the times of sorrow or grief,
to cast a specter of despair.
Children still will laugh and play,
on the merry streets of Sinclair.