The earth is scorched and bitter here,
a sad and sere plateau.
Acid poisoned the sacred soil
and nothng new will grow.
The garden has withered and died,
the flowers burnt to dust.
The trowel and rake are cast aside,
grimy with dirt and rust.
The gardener has long sice fled,
and won't be back again.
Harsh droughts and storms drove him away
to find a greener glen...
...and so this ground sits desolate,
a lonely place apart,
and no one ever comes to tend
this wasteland that's my heart.