When Fields Becomes Cities

Once there stood a golden field, Swaying crops, a farmer's yield. Morning songs of birds took flight, Beneath the sky so vast and bright. The village paths, of dust and stone, Where children laughed and cattle roamed, Now paved with tar, so smooth and wide, Where restless cars and buses glide. The thatched-roof homes with lantern’s glow, Replaced by lights in glassy rows. The banyan tree where elders met, Now stands alone in cold cement. The riverbanks where stories flowed, Now buried deep where buildings grow. The marketplace of voices loud, Now lost beneath a concrete crowd. Yet in the heart of progress’ run, Echoes of the past still hum. For roots of earth, though hidden deep, In memories, they softly keep. - Phin Jiu