Light rain falling in the foothills
Where the little town was built
Slow the garden birdbath fills,
Innocence, no crime or guilt
Elsewhere money and its crime
Cities, power, business—
Does that world run out of time
Are there signs of its distress?
Here the farmers come to market
Held each Tuesday on the street,
Sweet corn and no sign of racket
All their innocence to eat
How much longer will there be
Warless lives, no misery?
Some already maybe caught
Some already maybe bought