Poetry

In my childhood days I pick lilies in the marsh,
I pick lilies, the most beautiful that I can find
in colours of red, yellow and white
but now a tar road cuts past.
The highway runs almost to eternity,
I wonder where the dilapidation did start
see no coots, plovers calling
broken lies the marshland that I love
and I have to search into the bright blue
to cling to the untouched
while smoke clouds of white, yellow and grey hang
like a blanket that is folding over everything
while wealth increases, nature becomes distorted,
and the plain has offices that is encroaching it.