They fall to the ground,
They fall all around;
White flakes of snow,
From the heavens, they blow;
Roof tops of brown,
Can no longer be found;
Trees once of green,
No where can be seen;
Chimneys of smoke,
So strong, one could choke;
Reach up to the sky,
To show we're alive;
It's awsome to see,
The majestic pine trees;
The coldness you'll feel,
From your head to your heels;
Some people say,
Your a fool, if you stay;
Others won't leave,
Even though they might freeze;
It's small and it's quaint,
L.A. it sure aint;
But we call it home,
Where the deer freely roam;
It's better by far,
With a whole lot less cars;
So you'll want to stay,
In Susanville, C.A........
By John Farthing
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem