On the green hill where the wind always blows,
the old house stands, empty and still, a ghost of a time
But in the mulberry trees with hollowed trunks,
you can still hear the games we played as kids.

Here is the swing where I used to read,
near the walnut and the old plum tree,
the ropes are frayed and the seat is cracked,
wild grass covers the uneven path.

I would like to go back to the time there,
Of shining days and firefly nights,
To broken swings and sunny walls,
but no more hands to hold, no familiar faces,
we are not the children we once were.

Eating blackberries at the top of the mulberry tree,
that summer we made friends
with a rabbit trapped in his cage,
the one we later refused to eat
never telling our parents why.

We played Indians in the sunlit fields,
observing the lizards in the yellow corn,
and then hid for hours in the darkened house,
dreaming of ships that would never sail.

I would like to go back to the time there,
Of shining days and firefly nights,
To broken swings and sunny walls,
but no more hands to hold, no familiar faces,
we are not the children we once were.

I still see the swing and the hollowed trees,
the fields we ran till the evening fell,
Then we grew up and forgot to dream,
time divided us and always will.

we are not the children we once were.