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Bethelridge

Robbie Fulks

God help a soul
In troubled dreams some peace to find:
The night is long,
And those now gone, they haunt my mind.

A low voice calls,
A shadowed face toward me turns.
Her arms unfold,
And on her breast my name is burned.

Oh love, the flame of gold,
Love left a child to hold;
But my love has long turned cold,
And my child is a stranger.

Go child, go
From Bethelridge your dreams have flown:
Your home's fallen still,
And through its halls chill winds have blown.

The earth you ran,
Bears no sweet trace of days gone by.
But a lone, lost man
Who sees no light nor hears you cry.

Oh love, the flame of gold,
Love left a child to hold;
But my love has long turned cold,
And my child is a stranger.

Home :: Poetry :: Protest (5) :: Bethelridge

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