I kiss the ground I walk upon.
To the dark rich loam I am drawn.
Hearing its doleful solemn pleas,
I fall in sympathy on knees.
No more to bear its sweet ripe fruit,
Buldozer waiting, metal brute.
Where once a fertile wheat field lay,
And golden fields waving with hay,
Where oaks grew strong by the bay,
And limbs of willow used to sway.
Now concrete parking lots will seal,
Beauty's deep aluring appeal.
No more will butterfly nor bird,
Will be seen in flight nor heard.