A village in decline,
Where young do not come back;
The old folks keep on ageing:
This is a one-way track,
Which is not new, of course;
It was forever thus:
Tear-stained sons and daughters
Would board the early bus.
But this time gaps appear,
Whose like we never saw;
The thin supply dissolves
In casualties of war,
For boys arrive home wrapped
And jobs do not get done,
As life is hollowed out
By bullets from a gun.
Though ice will melt one day
And springtime flowers bloom,
Youth’s spirit has long flown;
No one will fill their room.
In mornings there will be
No weeping and no fuss,
For nobody remains
To take the early bus.
