and elements of men remain
there stands a haunted carousel
silent now, and just as well.
The ponies still in frozen prance,
the wind and rain made colors pale
yet once their brightly painted hooves
fell softly to their merry dance.
And children's laughter echoes 'round
among the ponies' gilded heads,
or is the wind designed to mock
and conjure up that mournful sound?
The mirrors, cracked along the wheel,
and blinking lights no longer shine
the moon reflects in still, black eyes
the daydreams of a child to fill.
Now paled by sun they fade away,
the carousel, a silent tomb
some say that on a summer's eve
one still can hear the ponies play.