The ancient walls of grandma's home
Are contrast to the halls I roam:
The doorways made of melted sand,
The corridors of metal and
The endless screens and paper reams.
I'd rather have the sun's warm beams;
The ocean blues, the forest greens;
The birds evincing morning joy;
The place where I was once a boy,
With hens and dogs exploring barns.
This place was home to carrot farms,
Was worked by men with reddened arms.
But reapers guised in suits then came
With profit as their only aim
And little care for right or wrong.
This land is here, but not for long;
The birds will sing their final song.
Rebar spreads far its concrete lair
And smog extends through once pure air -
It chokes the lungs and chills the bone.
The ancient walls of grandma's home
Are contrast to the halls I roam,
But soon I fear they'll be effaced,
With concrete towers be replaced.
And in my mind resides a fear:
That what I can no longer see
Will one day fall from memory.