You came upon my shambletown
And saw the walls had tumbled down;
my trees were bare, my well was dry;
I was the only passerby.
My windows bared their glass-shard teeth
as you walked by them, underneath
my awning—now faded tatters—
as the rain came down in patters.
You saw my rusted shells of cars
and saw my houses’ shrapnel scars.
You asked me just what had occurred—
but I couldn’t say a word.
In silence, then, you set to mend
my broken town—and, by the end,
you’d filled my well and window panes,
and flowers bloomed along my lanes;
streetlamps shone brightly as before,
as if there’d never been a war.
I asked you not to wander far.
You built a house. And there you are.