The Windmill

 

 

The windmill that I still can see,

While driving down the road…

Is full of so much history,

When once it bore a load.

 

It used to be, that it brought forth,

Precious water from below…

When people had to pray for rain,

Or at least, the wind to blow.

 

 With missing blades, and rusted gears,

In need of some repair,

A face that’s old and weather checked,

A lot of history there.

 

Destined now to simply stand there,

It waits so patiently…

For time to pass, ’till it becomes,

Another, ‘used to be.’

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