An old brick schoolhouse
Sits in a field, long forgotten
And slowly decaying.

Where are the children
Who once filled its halls with their
Laughter, their chatter?

Do they, too, lie in
A field, forgotten, slowly
Decaying, food for worms?

History surrounds
Us. What has been will someday
Be again, only

Then it will be we
Who lie forgotten, slowly
Decaying and lonely.

Then it will be we
Who are pushing up daisies,
Food for nightcrawlers.

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