Lost

"Come on", said my weary mind.
"Go back a little; rewind. "

In a field of rice, lush green
lay a patch of bare soil.
Perhaps a nightmare or a dream
of the farmer's hard work and toil.

There lay upon that patch of mud,
a withering form of clay.
And in the glaring sun it made,
a melancholic display.

The limbs were gone-
eyes were hollow sockets.
Long had its heart stopped beating,
yet some treasure lay in its pockets.

 It was paper - perhaps a letter.
Rotten as it was on this day
a hand had poured over it long ago,
it's toil lead astray.

I knew not what secrets it kept
nor harboured a feeling of pity.
But the sadness inside, long trapped
overbore, as I walked back to the city.