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The coal shed is empty, the hearthstone is cold,
Another young mother, feeling so old,
Cries in the dark hour before the dawn,
When her child will rise to a hungry morn.
Yet there's a flame, for the ice in her soul,
Will thaw in the warmth of Saint Vincent de Paul.
Aimlessly walking, into months, into years,
In shoes that are worn and down at the heels,
Nothing to do since the company died,
Stealing his dreams, his hope and his pride.
Still, hope is not dead though long was the fall,
It's reborn in a visit from Saint Vincent de Paul.
She measures the hour with each tick of the clock,
Shadow at the door has a moneylender's knock,
She wanders the shops at the close of the day,
Maybe there's something they're giving away.
Most times she goes home with nothing at all,
And waits for the faithful Saint Vincent de Paul.
Want has it's haunts in upland and valley,
At the smart side of town and in the back alley,
It's the mould on the bread, it's the final demand,
It's the dead bulb hanging, it's life second hand,
Dark in the mind, you can't see past the wall,
Seek the light and the love of Saint Vincent de Paul.
By Paddy Mulhern