The Old Barn

We sweat in the bleached bones of  the stable,
Which has stood a century, perhaps longer,
Where blazing manes turned and tossed,
And steely shoes beat sand to glass.

So long ago;
Now the white paint turns to dust,
The pillars slink into the earth,
The walls afford the sunlight,
And men know nothing of yesterday.

Yet here we are,
Man and woman,
Girl and boy,
Sweating in the bleached bones of the stable.

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