In larger countries that have vast areas covered by fields, farmers have managed to counter the drifting away from the land by workers and substituting them with state-of-the-art machines. In countries such as Malta, with huge areas of terraced fields, this is not so simple and so many fields have been deserted by farmers and left to fall to ruin.

Once beautiful and cultivated fields now go down the windswept slopes, their rubble walls left to tumble, increasing erosion’s sad momentum. In the past, each corner of our frail and hilly land was carefully tended, yielding crops for the farmers. Sadly, the farmers are going or have already gone.

Their children have moved to less demanding work, but also less gratifying, and the land, now wasting away in front of our eyes, will soon be barren, bare of any coverings that are life sustaining.

If this is progress, if this is the future, then we are letting our fertility literally disappear right in front of our eyes, down a never ending slope that is irreversible in its nature.

We dig out blocks of solid stone and leave gaping holes behind, then take this stone to some far off place that was once fertile land. It was land that gave us food and drink but now sites with boxes where we live.

The land has changed and so have we.

We now have many homes but we buy food from far off places where fertility is preserved, as is their ability to sustain themselves and others.

Our land is now full of houses and cars, and thousands of people, all leaving their rubbish behind them. With this rubbish we build mountains and abandoned quarries litter the landscape.

This is progress, created by our desperate needs to look after and house more and more people.

More and more people, causing more and more problems, building moreand more boxes, leaving more andmore rubbish.

Yes, our fields are going down the windswept slopes. And their rubble walls are tumbling behind them, slipping sadly like tears down the cheeks of this very old and tired land.

In one small village, a little boy looked intently at an old man. He had never seen anyone so old-looking, with thick leathery skin covering a tough moulded face.

The deep wrinkles fell like canyons down the sad and lonely face. He was lost in thought and his eyes were practically closed with tired resignation.

“What are you thinking,” the boy asked with muted anticipation because the old man had never once replied to any of his queries. To the boy’s amazement, the old man moved his head slightly to one side and gazed intently in the direction of the questioner. He slowly moved his lips and started speaking in a low and very gently voice.

“I’m thinking of the old neat fields, terraced to the sea. I’m thinking of the herds of goats that used to follow me. I’m thinking of the old blind mule, pulling water from the well and also of our village church that called us with its bell.

Why are billions spent on killing machines when they could be spent assisting those in need?

“I’m thinking of my horse and cart, which took me here and there, and all the village children who used to stop and stare. The women in the wash house making all our garments clean, the village policeman walking around, looking stern and mean.

“I’m thinking of the village clock that told us all the time. I’m thinking of my mother’s house, with washing on the line. I’m thinking of the first class food, we all used to eat, and of the freshly baked soft cakes mum gave us as a treat.

“I’m thinking of my little boat I used to put to sea and of the fish I used to catch and bring back home with me. I’m thinking of my little dog and my bird inside a cage and of the book I used to have and read from page to page.

“Things have now completely changed and not so for the best. The time I knew and all our ways have gone with all the rest. And now I’m watching this new world, and all the changes made, and I feel for times, long gone by, and see my memories fade.”

The little boy just sat down, stared at the old man and saw a tear run down his cheek. Then the teardrop fell onto the old man’s hand and, startled, he sat back and began to stand on his feet. Slowly, he began to walk towards his home, careful not to go onto the road as, by now, the old man could hardly see.

The little boy jumped up and went to help the old man and, as he did, he held his hand very tightly. After all, this washis grandpa.

The boy grew up and went to college and lived in the new modern world but he would often return to the village and sit on his grandfather’s bench thinking about the present and the future.

He sat there, looking up at the sky, his brow wrinkled in thought. He told himself that, if only he could, he would pull the clouds down upon his head and smother his thoughts with their blankness, erasing the unhappy feelings he bore so silently about the miserable state of the world around him.

So much inequality, hardship and pain. So much ill treatment of the millions who could not fight back, who die of hunger and thirst, while others bloat themselves with excesses.

So much money wasted on items that destroy life rather than help life to exist.

The thoughts that rich people and rich countries could do so much more for those who desperately need their help. Instead, the rich get richer and the poor waste away in ever-increasing statistics each year.

The clouds press down upon minds that wish to cry out in frustration and anger, at the helplessness of the average person to be able to persuade the people who can help to do so before it is too late.

The masses of poor oppressed people in rich but corrupt countries are struggling to leave their infested homes. Leaving them to go to far off lands, risking their lives and those of their families. Trying to find a better place to live, only to find that wherever they go they could be locked up in cages and sent home to an even worse ending.

Why, oh why, are billions spent on killing machines when they could be spent assisting those in need?

Why are Christians with lessons on charity, goodness and friendship recently learned looking away from those who are falling down in distant lands, dying in numbers that are so great it is difficultto believe?

Maybe it is because they are so far away. Out of sight is out of mind and distances ease their consciences.

The young man’s brow, still wrinkled in the sun, still looking at the clouds, still wondering why life is so unjust.

He stood up and took a deep breath. He is the youth of this world. He and others like him are the ones that can make a difference.

He looked up at the sky and the clouds had disappeared. He got up and strode forward purposefully and positively ready to do whatever he could to make at least the small part of the world he lived in a much better place.

Frank Salt is a former chairman of the Malta Tourism Authority’s Planning and Product Directorate.