Posted in Poetry

OLD DAYS

The wind blows, the sound is nostalgic,

Of the old days when rains, used to be plenty

And children played outside, and herded cattle in the fields

The trees whistle in the forest

In a reminiscence of the whistling of the herder in the green fields

When the herd was plenty and the rain dropped from the sky

The land was fertile and the plains were never dry

 

The rain drops, on the metal sheet

Very intense but for a short time

Unlike the old times when, we had more than plenty

When we had bumper harvests and our granaries were ever full

 

Now on the wind blows, and brushes past the dry trees

The trees whistle a mournful sound, like a funeral procession

the raindrops are scarce, and very feeble, like a candle fire in the wind

The children never play outside, they are never amused by the sun and the desolate land

And the fireplace has no fire, only ashes remain, because the corn has since dried in the farm land

 

Adopted words,

Anonymous.

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