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