sometimes as i walk early morning <br />when the suns starts to climb up on the hill <br />i think of grandfather's house <br />old, and spacious on top of a hill <br />overlooking his farm where his carabaos graze <br />his goat and cows and ducks teem, <br />oh, those were the years of bounty <br />and there was no worry, <br />about what to eat what to do <br />where to go, <br /> <br />times changed, and now we are always on a race <br />taking much work, and buying lots of things <br />sometimes we regret, taking and throwing <br />going and then returning <br />apparently, for no purpose and without meaning, <br /> <br />we live in a new house now with glass windows <br />and iron grill and high and thick walls and fences <br />we speak less, we move more, <br />we laugh less, we discuss more, <br /> <br />the old house of grandfather was burned in 1968. <br />this new house burns all day, and there is no fireman coming.<br /><br />RIC S. BASTASA<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-house-of-my-grandfather/
