Sometime in life, Somewhere through life…

Walking by fields, pale yellow
Saw something undesirably still,
It was a scarecrow
No noise, no sound, no skill
Just the rows of straw,
And a vale flowing by the mill.

Crossed the vale, by a tree stump
Saw something monotonously dripping,
It was a handpump.
All wet, broken and chipping
As useless as a desolate dump,
As underpriced as an unneeded clipping.

Further ahead, another nipping sight,
On a lamp post was hanging
A snarled kite.
Snapped, torn and dangling,
Had lost its capability of flight,
Up there, barely clinging.

Across the pastures and the flocks,
Sensed expectations and an eternal wait
I was near a letter box.
Every month and its every date,
And time ticking by the clocks,
The feeling would all the more inflate.

Back to my home, under my fan
Sitting and gathering every thought
I am an old man.
With them, each day, I have fought,
Why was I detached from my own clan?
Why am I living in such a drought?

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