The Windmill’s Echo: A Testament to Persistence Through Time

The West wasn’t won by luck—it was carved by determination and hard work.

In dust and dawn, the windmill spins,

Its creaking voice, where time begins.

A sentinel tall, against the sky,

Whispers the tales of days gone by.

Beneath its shade, the cowboy sighs,

With leathered hands and weathered eyes.

He toils and dreams, a life he finds,

In whispered echoes that fill the winds.

The prairie stretches, vast and wide,

A canvas where his hopes abide.

Each turn of blades, a promise sworn,

Of trials faced and bridges worn.

As evening falls, the stars ignite,

The windmill stands, a beacon bright.

In silence deep, it still will thrive,

A testament, where spirits strive.