The Predicted Harvest Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The golden towers touch the clouds,
High above the busy crowds.
But shadows creep across the height,
To pull the shining from the light.
The glass will break, the frame will fall,
A heavy ruin for us all.

Yet look beyond that falling star,
For darkness spreads out wide and far.
A string of strikes, a sudden cry,
Beneath a cold and troubled sky.
From land to land, the alarms will ring,
The bitter harvest winters bring.

The days ahead are paved with dread,
With heavy hearts and news unread.
One falling stone starts off the slide,
With nowhere left for peace to hide.

The world will tremble, shake, and weep,
As secrets wake from troubled sleep. No path is left to walk or trace,
The ruins of a golden place.

The smoke ascends to blot the sky,
As silent watchers query why.
The final stone has slipped away,
Into a cold and winter day.