The old mill stood majestically in the sun beaten world,
Wood splintered dry, portraying an era that had flourished long before.
Her millstones would never turn to the rhythm of crushed grain
Or create the beads of sweat that roll silently
Down an old man’s back.
The door, which stood as a barrier to all,
Lay crumpled in a cobwebbed corner,
Mildewed on each hinge, rust
On the once metallic heart that
Withstood so much.
The windows that reflected the
Sun’s nobility were shattered.
Replaced by warped boards,
Which man had preferred.
A waterwheel that turned to the melodic sound of onrushing
Water has fled, her spokes broken, she turns no more; the currents
No longer flow, only dry and barren ground, parched by the
Relentless rays of the sun
Gird this once noble warrior.