
The wind blows across the fields of hay
Where once were the voices of children at play
Empty house standing alone and still
An eerie image that gives one a chill
The windows look empty, the glass long gone
The wind rushes through like a morbid song
The roof is rotted, with big gaping holes
The veranda roof is sagging, held up by slowly weakening poles
The paint is weathered and shows signs of neglect
The boards on the walls are falling, from the wind they no longer protect
Inside the plaster is crumbling, the wallpaper torn
The floor is littered with debris, the wood rotted and worn
The house is empty, its occupants departed
Its imminent destruction is already started
It's long forgotten, no longer full of life
The wind that howls through is cold as a knife