In the thick of tangled overgrown brush…
Are sounds of memories caught in a hush.
The land is no longer tilled for crop planting.
The old farmhouse is precariously slanting.
Time has a way of grasping and taking over.
The only thing endearing is the smell of clover.
Wildlife scampers and soars from the tall grass.
They are the only living beings who trespass.
A shrouded tractor sits idly in a thicket of twigs.
The plow blades are rusting; they no longer dig.
It is painfully sad to see the abandoned plight…
Fertile hopes and dreams have faded from sight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.