There is a place, upon a certain hill;
A place of simple antiquity,
Where the sun shown brighter,
The sky was bluer,
And the grass grew greener.
Small blossoms grew at the base of a tree,
And a red swing hung by a tightly bound rope
Swinging softly in the breeze.
Thick, green leaves adorned each twig,
And rough brown bark covered each branch.
A child approaches this place of mystery,
And immediately begins to shout with glee.
Swinging without a care
And climbing with a smile as wide as the sea.
At last, the child slumped against the tree,
A contented sigh escaped, and was free.
The days were warm, too warm.
The child came to play, but grew restless.
Its free spirit was trapped,
Not content to merely admire the leaves rustling
And the birds as they sang.
The child came and went,
Often just swinging idly,
Other thoughts clouding its mind.
The child left, and did not return.
The leaves turned to vibrant pastels
Of yellow and red,
But none ever came.
The swing sat, desolate and forgotten;
No child came to play.
The leaves were gone, and the grass was dead.
The paint peeled,
Brown flakes of a forgotten paradise.
No birds sang, and all was still,
Until one day, for no reason,
The child returned.
It had trouble climbing the hill,
But this one was determined.
After completing this labor,
The child patted the tree,
Tears streaming from its eyes.
There the child sat,
Until the wind caused the swing to creak,
Startling the child from its reveries.
It gave the swing a little push, half smiled,
And walked back down the hill.
Days passed, and the tree remained.
No more leaves were left;
Only gnarled branches and gray bark.
The birds had all disappeared;
The sky was dim, and matched in color to the tree.
A slight breeze moved through,
Pushing the swing to and fro.