The old mill long had closed its doors
the rotting wheel would turn no more
no grain to grind, no country stores
where old men sat, told stories, swore…

And rocks that formed the waterfall
became the playground for us all
on summer days, it beckoned, called
beneath the old mill’s rotting walls….

The chill of water, mountain-fed
awakened spirits, long since dead
where millers’ children once were fed
on banks upon which lovers wed.

And yet i hear the echoes still
where laughter of the children filled
those rotting walls upon the hill
‘twas once the home to Freeman’s Mill…

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