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Clare Martin Clare Martin
Recommendations: 12

Darwin


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"Darwin" is a storm that hit Ireland a few weeks ago.


This town isn’t meant for me.
The greys in the pavements
Are duller than those in the sky
And the orange in the sugar drops
Paler than that of the sunrise.
The puddles are endless teardrops
In wounds on the skin that is the road.
There are always puddles here.
The river itself consists of the tears of locals.
Those who can’t cry in company.
Raindrops are our only relief here,
As when the river overflows in rain,
We know not all our tears were wasted.
The rain purifies them, somewhat.


No, this town isn’t meant for me.
The country is where my heart belongs,
Far from the town square, far from those
Aggravating, high-pitched cries of surprise,
Those overly-bright fake smiles,
Here, my feet take me to where I must go
And my brain frees its imprisoned thoughts.
Here I can sing as loud as I want.
Here the trees, stronger than the town’s,
Refuse to give in to Darwin’s furious power.
And so do I. The wind is a worthy opponent,
But one I certainly can handle. After all,
I’ve never had the chance to face it myself before.
The honour of standing tall, standing strong,
As Darwin tries to pull my roots from the earth
Is overwhelming. An honour I’d thought naught of.


This town isn’t meant for me.
It holds dark, sad memories,
That have their own cell in my head,
The key to which I’d lost long ago.
This town is full of false life,
Fake smiles, forced laughter.
And everybody knows it,
Because today, of all days in the year,
The river overflows, and no rain falls.
No, I’d rather be nearer the trees,
The flowers, a place I can call home,
Away from the torment I suffered,
Far away from the hell I endured
And escaped from. And so I’ll go.


The day I’ll eventually return
Is many, many years from this.


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