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.