There were windmills
Preserved in turning grace
Enthralled by steady unison
Ages upon ages

Upon the hillsides
They were stacked
Leagues, beneath the burden of time
Where they whirled ceaselessly
Slow and diligent

Before
Death descended
In canopies of white
Coveting the harvest
Before the dusts strayed in panic
In sheets of chaos madly stirred

They are entombed in long ago
Where the artisans pondered
Weaving their aspiration
Taken, beneath the comfort
Of a stern and sluggish whirl

Not a soul dares recall
Not a soul can be bothered to reflect