The chimneys of Bilston
fell one by one
like flowers that were
dying away from the sun.
For the industry that
in the town had once thrived,
the summer had gone and
the winter arrived.
Their smoke that had
filled so much of the sky
drifted thinner and
thinner and was lost to the eye.
Now little remains to
mark their old place.
Time has changed
everything, has erased every trace.
The chimneys of Baiyin
are always in sight.
They spring up like
weeds in search of the light.
In and out of the city,
they surround and they fill.
It's the height of
their season, they are kings of the hill.
Their smoke rises like
prayers straight up to the sky,
gradually spreading and
drawing the eye,
but one day they too,
like Bilston's old towers,
will find that time is
implacable and always devours.
