The Waste Land

In the fields of yesteryears, condemned to live,
Where the earth, with scars and weeds, must forgive;
Each clod a memory, each stone a sigh,
An echo of whispers where flowers dare die.

I pass by the remnants of verdant grace,
Now echoing winds, and lacking embrace;
Yet within the desolation I hear
The pulse of nature, distant yet near.

Fear not the curse of the barren ground;
For the roots of despair find strength underground;
From decay reborn, life spirals anew,
In the dance of the seasons—forever in view.

• Charles Baudelaire