Wind distresses wood and window pane
Soundless damage in the shade of
stationary identity
Now, artificial names blow in the breeze
Where lush fields bloomed from wild seed
Memories plague my ears like bees
The meadows have been stolen away
A highway molests the scenery
And I taste the grief
My past ruined by washed identities
The scars have healed
Sealed off as far as eye can see
No shacks or desolate abandonment:
Romantic stops or medieval Fairs
The Age of Steel and Machine
has burst the attic of my dreams