And their rustic beauty
Seem to be endless
And are spotted with
Houses and huts
Of sun-kissed bricks,
Born of Sicilian furnaces
Among houses and huts
Were villas of those men
With wives and children and horses and guns
Who saw only mounds of gold
And now, have nothing
But a view of the earth
From its bosom
One such villa
On a distant hill
With a wall for guard
That beams at the Sun, like a liar
And bears a rambler bush
Protects a lonely build
With silent windows
The building is incomplete
Without the rambler bushes,
The tree of Sicilian oranges in
The courtyard, the pigeons,
The shepherds looking for their sheep,
And the rust that embraces
The cold steel
Inside, there’s nothing
That tells that it was too
Once, a happy home but
There are stains of blood
Which paint the walls,
Telling, that there was
No happy ending
Beneath the blue sky
The silhouettes of burnt chairs
Dwell in dark shadows
Of roofless, crushed walls
Remembering the past
The cheerful past
That will never come back.
By
Kurosaki