The Destructive Hands of Time

The old Spanish mission had fallen down from neglect. Where it once taught of a different way, and housed anyone from the noble to the derelict. Now it houses only varmints and things that crawl in the night, A place where man at one time could seek sanctuary when weary from the fight. They were lighthouses in the most barren of spots, A place where troubles were brought in hopes they would be forgot. This one had fallen because there was no water at all. The river stopped flowing and was the reason for the fall. For without the water no crops could be raised, And it couldn’t support the animals which needed to graze. The river itself had been a grand site to behold, Teeming with fish and attracted all types of wildlife that was the story they told. They said a quake must have happened the only explanation they had, And from the looks of things it must have been bad. Artifacts of all type still clutter the ground, From broken pottery to arrowheads can be abundantly found. Outback of the mission an old cemetery is found. Such an uncaring looking place where no one ever comes around. I found a date scratched on a stone that read sixteen forty three. Maybe a marker on a grave left in hopes someone might see. A sad and lonely place that has been forgotten through time, Letting such an historical place go unattended should be a crime.