The Old Dream

You sit 

in the corner of my room,  

stretched thin across canvas, 

and frozen 

in your forgotten poise. 

But now I see you, 

old teacher, 

old dream. 

Tell me,  

did your dark eyes know 

when the winds of storm  

would come 

and fell all the trees; 

when the fires of industry  

would arrive, 

and burn the beloved wood? 

Did your heart know 

when the ones who changed 

would be sent to the west 

to die in soil not their own? 

Do you grieve 

for their stoic souls? 

Do you cry 

for their forgotten wisdom? 

Do you mourn

for that old dream,  

long since beaten down? 

Did you see it 

on the rolling horizon,

the storm of your time?

Or was it a mystery

drifting through the mists 

of the sinking plains? 

I hope you did not watch idly 

as the world was taken from you.

Forgive me old teacher,

old dream, 

I did not know you, 

and I never will.

So long,

to the adventure of the west.

So long,

to the memory of you and yours.