written by: Eoghan Lyng
Little lamb, beaming eyes and beating:
I sense your breath failing, and I’m waging
You hope I can help you.
But, in the purpose of honesty, I’m afraid
I’d rather be sorting out problems,
Than chase a’er tearaway wolves.
I’ve sifted through fields,
Searching for gold ‘neath bales,
But ageing, I had to call, “Stop.”
Beaming, your eyes show me,
A glory I once swallowed: wholesale
“A dream picked up and torn.”
But there’s no sense in charging,
When the farms are stood closing:
I too was blown to the wolves.
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