The farmhouse with the peeling paint

Behind the farmhouse with the peeling paint, Lies a field that once was golden, Where once the birds sang of opportunity, And the wind carried news of good fortune, The corn swayed to the rhythm of the earth beneath it, Once there stood a proud oak tree, Long limbs etwined with clouds of dreams, Now the corn lies discarded, Shrivelled and burnt under the relentless glare of the sun, The birds cry of despair and carry the burden of death Heavily upon their wings, Now the wind sighs at tales of misfortune, And the oak tree no longer stands tall, Stooped under the anger of time, It bows its great head to the ground, And weeps for what once was.