written by: Eoghan Lyng
Did he come back today?
It’s been two years apart,
And there’s an art museum opened.
I have hope today.
Is there any news?
He looked quite well,
A servitude with the local press
And six guineas to save for mum.
Did he ask of me,
Those dewy eyes, I sighed,
Whenever he told a joke,
Older than our dad’s of dad.
Is there any hope?
The rectitude of hopeless solitude-
Screaming his name might help me,
But it won’t help him.
There was no luck today,
The shillings we left on his bed,
We said we’d be here for him.
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