The Łemko Steeple Poem by Leo Yankevich

Over the valley, down into the wood,
where water laps the boulder-dotted banks,
a raven soars beneath the summer sun.
The elder chłopi say none have appeared
for many seasons, having understood
at last the ways of man. For on the flanks
of the old hill, no hare or vole had run
across the plush green grasses. Drought had seared
the soil; and industry had promised gain.
The young and able have moved far away,
and now the hamlet is bereft of people,
the houses bare or full of rotting hay.
The lone hope is to wait for acid rain,
or for a sign above the Łemko steeple.