The screeching sirens pierce the crowded street,Where concrete towers block the heavy air.A million rushing boots and hurried feet
Are chasing wealth and running from despair.The engines roar beneath the smoky gray,The neon signs demand our scattered sight;The endless rush of business fills the day,And steals the quiet magic of the night.
Then step inside this gate of moss and green, (The Volta/Turn)
Where weeping willows shield the quiet pond.The city fades into a hidden scene,And breaks the frantic, artificial bond.Among the leaves, the heavy world grows still,And peace returns against the iron will
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