I have not been to my first home-place for twenty nine years
And for the what used to be i have shed my last tears
But on my flights of fancy the Claramore rill
Babbles towards Claraghatlea down the fields by the hill
Where mine years ago was a familiar face
Today i would be a stranger to many in my first home-place
And with only mental images of them to retain
So many i knew i will not see again
The boys and girls of the fifties have known a better day
And some of them where the deceased are now lay
Time that does not wait for anyone did not wait for me
But on my flights of fancy i often do see
Old Clara half cloaked in the gray fogs of rain
The past may be gone but the memories remain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem