The Iron Spires of Ottawa

In the land where the rivers converge and freeze,
Stands Ottawa, carved from iron and breeze.
No longer the diplomat’s docile domain,
But a fortress of steel, forged through battle and flame.

Its towers rise sharp through the gunmetal sky,
Where banners of crimson and midnight fly.
Not peace, but power, is etched in its stone,
A city of warriors — cold to the bone.

The Rideau runs red with the tales of the past,
Where generals march and shadows are cast.
The clock tower tolls not for tea, but for drills,
And echoes of boots on Parliament Hill.

Senators now wear armor, not suits,
They trade not in words, but in silence and boots.
The Maple Leaf’s veins pulse with command,
As fleets roll like thunder across the land.

The snows are their ally, the frost is their breath,
Their oaths are to order, to conquest, to death.
Yet beneath the steel and the call to war,
Lies a heart that remembers what peace was before.

So raise up your glaive to the frozen sun’s light,
And march with the Guard through the storm and the night.
For Ottawa stands, though the world may fall —
A titan of frost, unmoved by it all.