Ghost Town

Old birck and stone buildings,
Standing, embeded in the ground,
Holes where windows once where,
Structures which were once safe and sound.

Paddlesteamers sinking,
Still tied up at port,
A town once filled with people,
Now, Population almost naught.

I look into the distance,
Up a long, wide country street,
Where people went about their business,
As it echoed of many feet.

Its golden days are over,
Meeting people there is rare,
Even the only pub in town,
Is never full but bare.

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