A pile of rubble, bricks and timber
scattered on a plain.
Some cluttered lines of trees alone
is what remain.
And weeds are sprouting through the waste
uncaring and unkind.
But then again – how could they care –
does anybody care what’s left behind?
A corner of a mural flecked with dust;
the first I ever painted – gone to waste.
The wall whereon it hang has been knocked down,
the past has been erased.
And not a sound is heard in this new wasteland
where I was taught to write.
It now lives only in the writings
that I dedicate to it.
There are so many memories tied to this place.
Both good and bad – all gone.
All gone and nature’s coming to reclaim –
all must pass on.