those days when mills shed waters on the flourished lands,
when woodmen chopped the trunks with calloused hands …
when workers hailed hurray to end a hard works day,
flinging their songs into the huts and hays.
those days are over now and silence flowed the grove,
the wheel stopped wheeling, long a-dried the moat …
the soil is soaked, the wind leaves uncropped meadows nod,
the work is done, the shed is bogged and rot.
but when you strain your ear up to the trees, my friend,
and listen to barks wisdom from it’s end …
you’ll hear a subtle whisper from the land and ground,
that sings of newborn songs, of lost and found.
(Szuszan Borka, 1904 – 1985)