Based on "There Will Come Soft Rains" by Ray Bradbury
Far away through the woods,
in the peace of a field,
up high on the top of a hill,
with hardly a sound,
though the world trembles all 'round,
A beautiful house stands still.
Inside are tin voices
and robotic maids
who do what you ask them to do:
stoke the fire, do the chores,
make the meals, wash the floors,
read aloud in the evenings to you.
like small, rolling beads,
skitter across the floor,
when a bang and a bark
make them look up and hark
as a dog staggers in through the door.
It barks at each doorway,
it whimpers and whines,
its grey coat is covered with sores.
Till at last it gives in;
in the midst of the din,
it lies down and will get up no more.
Outside on the grass,
the sun shows its face,
lighting the dead, empty lawn.
The silhouette of a child
against the house, torn and wild-
a reminder of one who is gone.
A great crash rents the air,
and a blaze springs up tall,
while the flames lick the walls and climb higher.
The smoke curls up high,
tainting the sky,
as the voices inside cry out, "Fire!"
Chaos reigns for awhile,
as the fire, raging bright,
burns the house that stands high on the hill.
With nary a sound,
as the world trembles all 'round,
comes a hush, and then all is still.
There may come soft rains
one day we can't see,
when the forest won't wither or burn.
But the wind will still whine,
forever to pine
for an owner who'll never return.