The years seem to fly and time ticking away
And what hair I have left on my head silver gray
And it goes without joy for me for to say
That I would be a stranger in Clara Today.
Perhaps even in Claraghatlea my old Homeplace
To many who live there mine would be a strange face
But the old fields I loved they would look much the same
I recall some of them even had their own name.
A migrant in this sunny Southern Land
Where my accent many struggle for to understand
A migrant here and a stranger by Clara is all I could be
And only the memories now live on with me
Of the very old fields where the rank rushes grow
In a place I once loved where many I did know
But the past is the past and life goes on somehow
And the future is ahead and we live in the now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem