the sound of boots on dried up grass,
the smell of autumn early,
abandoned house out in the field,
as you approach unsurely

how many lives are lost to time?
if we could mine those quarries
how many treasures would we find
in their forgotten stories?

you peer into the mold and gloom
but cannot see the faces,
that disappeared into the night
and left but few light traces

of what was life when life was here.
the highest, and the lowest
are known only to heaven, now
for no one else left

noticed