The Gradual Decline Of The True Arts Poem by DM W
The Gradual Decline Of The True Arts
I slowly drag the ancient plough of language
Across the parched earth of forgotten meaning.
I look for signs of a change in the weather.
Once firm trees and radiant flowers bloomed here,
But those rich days of gold and green are long gone.
Now harvest time is increasingly meagre.
O each spring I await new gifts from the gods!
Yet like the angels, they have disappeared.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/13/2026 1:07:46 PM # rel_20260811T123139Z_a98d49b
