Paupers and Puppets of Plumczajka

Ask me about my sorrow, and mine shall be Plumczajka
Not Plumczajka, but rather the fond memories
of her busy alleys and outskirts prairies
of her felines purring in the night's embrace
of her streets once bustling with people

The vigor of life slipped away
From the city once dreamed by royals
Leaving an empty husk of rubbles and ruins
Sheltering paupers and their puppets

who hums lullabies of plums and pomegranates