Here, upon the rolling hills I stood

There is a place where dreams come to die. Where promises of a bright summer day wither away into the cold, dry air. The breeze... humming softly like a carousel rocking a baby to sleep. And the swiftly rolling hills, watch as the long weeds and grass waltz out of synch to the songs of summer, playing in an endless loop. Crickets whose carcasses have not soared with the wind and dried grass sang like the lute of a court jester, forever playing a melody even he despises.

The place I stand, where children used to run and frolick around, their tears of laughter and joy watered the very vegetation of the hills. Their merry voices, filling the quiet air. But lo, it is no more.

There is a small creek that flows into where a town once stood. The cool waters trickle and glisten under the golden skies. It is a familiar sight. There is a face in the water, looking back at me, and there it gazed in silence. My nimble fingers touching a face that it no longer recognises. What is it that I have become? A figure upon a stone where dreams and hope once stood, their chests pushed out in vanity.

"Ah," it spoke at last, "how I miss the days of spring!"

"How I miss the smell of wet grass as bare feet would glide upon them, and the allure of freshly baked bread on the window sills of women in town as they stood vigilant of naughty little hands who would steal their fresh produce and devour them in an instant. Where women spoke and measured conversations not by the things they were able to talk about but by the syllables they were able to say. Where did it go? Flying ever so gracefully through the gaps between my fingers: the sight of a blooming petal. How I miss the days of spring"

And it turned away, uttering not another word.