Digging her arms so deep, she needed to warm her hands,
Felt so cold on a shroven road, waiting for a thoughtless God.
Inside, they walked by empty rooms, praying to the richest,
Paved by a wealth a family borne, well worn,
In a waltz paid for by the sleeping walls.
Had have nots written down their bodies,
Near a barrio broad and barren, aches the hungry
Man who named a serf to everyone.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime writer. He lives in Glasgow, having written from the perspective from Cork, Madrid and Prague. He has written for OutlawPoetry, VadaMagazine and FromTheLighthouse.