Old barns have a history all their own, Where hay once piled and tobacco was grown. Cows, horses, sheep, and goats alike, Made it home through day and night.
On barn-raising day, it gleamed so bright, A sturdy frame in morning light. But years of storms, of wind and rain, Have left their mark, a lasting stain.
Now the beams are worn, the paint has peeled, The echoes of life no longer revealed. But in my heart, those days remain, Bringing a tear, a sweet, soft pain.
For though the barn now stands in rust, Its memory holds a sacred trust. A symbol of toil, of life once shared, Where love and labor stood prepared.
Old barns may fade, but never die, For in our hearts, they still stand high. A testament to days gone by, Bringing a tear to my grateful eye.
