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.