A million yards I've rode,
through leaves and sand.
"What has past?" I asked.
"Hours of your precious life."
On foot, I've walked acres of land,
yet I saw not of a single open door,
nor any carefree smiling faces.
No joyful little kinds playing,
though spring flowers had bloomed.
Beauty in every detail as it may seem,
but only to thy eyes of passer-bys.
Not one of thy inhabitants has returned,
to where they once called "my dear home."
Much darkness I feel, though it is day,
So solemn it seems, though it is plain.
A hint of grey, though vibrant thy colors may be,
A pang of Mankinds guilt hits I,
Has any living soul seen life's beauty after rain?