Wasteland, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz



Herds of clouds travel by at sonic speed
Appearing to have meetings to attend
Never looking down at my drastic need
Lacking pity not a tear to expend

Once my fields produced many bumper crops
Filling the air with my sweet summer wheat
Now a flat arid brown mosaic corpse
Giving absolutely nothing to eat

Every living creature has moved away
Land lays barren totally depleted
As I had become greedy farmers’ prey
Alone now knowing that I was cheated

Will take generations my soil to heal
Then new farmers will come again to steal

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