The fields are empty
Where at another time villages used to flourish,
And echoes of tolling bells doubled back from the hills,
Sobbing the silence of the pines.

A time of manor houses, grand tables set,
A hum of voices and early morning song.

Today the train goes whistling by and indifferent
fingers point to the vine-draped wall:
"Over there was . . .", but already the river comes in sight.
The train shakes the foundations of the bridge.