Instruments of beige

No longer hands to tend the soil
no longer hands to mend and sew,
as instruments of beige arise
the humble signs no longer show

No longer stories on the palms
in landscape's lexicon,
no furrowed brows or broken nails
something deeper now is gone

No longer tales of turning hay
or drinking tea in fields,
a subtle death of fellowship
to "progress" it must yield

No longer sights of mining men
blackened faces all aglow,
identity when it faded
sentiment then had to go

No longer horse or plough or shovel
no longer sounds of yesteryear,
a clanging noise invades the senses
sounds that never shed a tear

Our primal self says now is better
no broken back, no longer pain,
as instruments of beige arise
to cloud what's lost in the gain.