Children playing
Little echoes of long ago
Brothers and sisters
Chasing each other
Running around the small town
Coming home to the farm
The building breaks
The wood rots
The porch cracks
Under a creaking
Rusted door frame
Sunburnt skin flaking
In the harsh summer wind
Oily flesh now dried
Swept up
Soon turns ashen
Praying for tomorrow
Dreaming of the old days
Her child says
Hope doesn’t die
She replies
With tired eyes
But we do