Precious Past
by Patrick Carroll
Allen the hill where water.
Only flows one way.
And industry has carried this.
Into our present day.
They’ve drew away half of her soul.
For the precious rock.
We lose a little of our past.
In every load that’s blast.
And only very conscious souls.
Can see the wrong that’s done.
From the tower on the hill.
You can see deep into the quarry.
And there’s a void that’s left so wide.
For the banks to be filled with money.
The side that’s left.
Is green and fertile land.
With a wood grown up her spine.
How she looked in all her glory.
It must of been divine.
At the top beside the tower.
A sheer drop shows a clear divide.
Where her other half.
Was torn from her side.
When it rains against the tower.
Tears role down along the walls.
Across historic land.
Down one side it only flows.
That stream of water.
Has formed a path.
The whole way down her cheek.
As she cry’s over mankind.
Selling her so cheap.
Now happiness makes all wrongs right.
Don’t be hurt because she cries.
If you summit her ,with a joyful heart.
The tears coming from her.
Will turn to tears of pride.
As love from everybody’s soul.
Will fill her place of pain.
And she will become.
A whole soul again.
Reproduced with kind permission of the author.