Boston in Silver Mist

Boston wakes in silver mist,

Where harbor winds and dawnlight kissed,

The cobbled streets of Beacon Hill,

Stand quiet, proud, and glowing still.

Along the Charles, the rowers glide,

Like whispers drifting with the tide,

While autumn paints the trees in flame,

And every leaf recalls a name.

At Fenway Park the echoes sing,

Of summer nights and bats that swing,

The city cheers beneath the sky,

Where dreams are launched and spirits fly.

Faneuil Hall hums warm and bright,

With music spilling through the night,

And Quincy Market’s lantern glow

Makes every wandering heart move slow.

The Freedom Trail in red brick lines,

Still carries stories through the times,

Past Old North Church and Bunker Hill,

Where history breathes and lingers still.

In Boston Common’s emerald space,

The seasons leave their gentle trace,

While swan boats drift in lazy streams,

Like pages floating from old dreams.

And far above the harbor’s gleam,

The skyline shines in twilight’s dream,

A city wise, yet young at heart,

Where every corner feels like art.

Oh Boston — fierce, poetic, grand,

A lighthouse on New England’s land,

Where sea and soul together stay,

And beauty never fades away.

                        — Meenakshi Singh