Abridged Version For Doc Wilde
The sun across the lake sinks low.
The birds have sung their even song.
The hills still basking in the glow
of crimson rays which wont last long.
The night is falling rapidly
reminding men that day is done.
The night winds sing their songs softly,
the time for toil is past and gone.
The curtains drawn against the night.
The family sits comfortably
bathed in the glow of firelight.
Mother is knitting busily
the children squabble as they play.
Father is nodding sleepily
so ends another working day.
A scene familiar to me.
From memories of childhood days.
Which I suppose we all recall
but memory scant attention pays
to truth if anything at all
We can ignore the poverty
the hardships which we underwent.
Create a false reality
the truth mislaid without intent.