The Magic and Sorrow of Canada

Oh, Canada, what a land of wonder,

A tapestry of cultures woven under.

From sea to sea, a mosaic of grace,

A home to many from every place.

.

The promise of a pot of gold for a sip of whiskey,

Such wit and humor, it makes me feel so free.

Drunk on weekends, laughter floats in the air,

Echoing through the valleys, without any care.

.

Their romantic whispers fill the air,

Drifting along the Bow Valley River with flair.

But amidst this mirth, I see a woman old,

Her dreams shattered, and her spirit cold.

.

An old immigrant woman, cleaning the bar floor,

Her hands twisted and curled, from years of hard labor.

Her dreams long dead, scattered in the cold wind,

With only the memories of her past to be found.

.

Her curly black hair now paled with age,

Her eyes burning deep with the secrets of the forgotten sage.

Canada, your people are lovely and kind,

But the broken dreams of that old woman weigh heavy on my mind.

.

Her hands crippled, twisted in her lap,

Years of hard work, bitter cold, and mishap.

Her once-curly hair turned gray,

Her eyes deep with secrets, ne’er fading away.

.

Canada, your people are lovely, it’s true,

But this old lady’s pain colors my view.

Her lost dreams and struggles make it gloomy,

As I wonder if we can truly call this land homey.

…