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The Village of Goodbyes

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The Village of Goodbyes

I read a story about a village I never knew,
And I’ll never go and see.
Nothing’s new but despondent smiles
For the tourists,
And I can’t be the reasoning 
Behind something untrue.

Tragedy is a thing like beauty,
That neither can be hidden for long.

And through the march that goes with constant grace-
Never stopping,
Never looking back,
But to something altered. 
Having lost some coloured-piece

That once strung together part of a story,
But now they've heard her loss
In many a reconstructed song.

And the visitors sing along
To the tune-

That time's measured out portions
Both bitter and sweet.
And she is generous to some,

But to others untrue.

And often she shakes off her peasant-garb
And flies beyond the coast of her home.

Where she’s gone to cross the Atlantic,
Or to the Continent to learn French,
Leaving behind a village 
She'll never return to.

Copyright © Erin Beckett

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