Rust on the Windmill

There’s rust on the windmill, a creak in the gate,

The barn leans heavy, under time’s weight.

Fields lay fallow, where the corn used to grow,

It’s a quiet kind of sorrow, only farmers know.

Rust on the windmill, it turns so slow,

Time takes the land, but the heart won’t let go.

The past keeps whisperin’, in the prairie’s low hum,

Rust on the windmill, and I’m my father’s son.

Mama’s old rocker still sits on the porch,

The seat’s worn thin, where she prayed to the Lord.

Daddy’s boots gather dust by the door,

He don’t wear ‘em now, but I can’t move ‘em for sure.

The paint fades, the wood splinters and cracks,

But memories don’t fade, they keep pulling me back.

Rust on the windmill, it turns so slow,

Time takes the land, but the heart won’t let go.

The past keeps whisperin’, in the prairie’s low hum,

Rust on the windmill, and I’m my father’s son.

The sun sets red, like a fire in the sky,

It kisses the earth, where my roots still lie.

The ghosts of this place, they don’t haunt—they guide,

In the rust on the windmill, I see family pride.