The old wind-mill serves as a trellis, now,
For vines that entwine, reaching high --
No more do the blades of the wind mast
Catch the breeze, as it flashes by.

This method has long been discarded;
In its stead, we have technical skill
That provides us with a short-cut --
To "utopia," if you will.

Never-the-less, in this great country,
We hear of people in need ---
Many, with no homes nor gardens;
With young and old to feed.

The empty, wasted farm-homes
Are a relic of by-gone days;
With the out-dated wind-mill, pump, and power
Substituted with modern ways.

For instance, the water, in huge amounts,
Flushed daily down the drain,
Deposits waste o'er a large expanse --
Efficiency, to gain.

There is a note of nostalgia,
Intermingled with feelings of fear --
For the future generations,
In this land we hold so dear.