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The House

The house stood lonely on the hill
Itís shadows long, in moonlights spill.
An eerie wind that makes bones chill,
Echoes of souls that scream out shrill

To tell the pain that they had borne
When in this place their bodies torn
Then broken, left in hell to mourn
And never see another dawn

In their chains and shackles bound
Down darkest dungeons they were found
Their bones and rags upon the ground
And here they stay, still hanging round

To meet and greet with lonesome moan
Those who dare their prison roam
With croaks from throat and creaks from bone
From spending centuries on their own

I wish that I could free their plight
That I could change the wrongs to right
To rest their souls and end their fight
And make their peace, this very night

I hope that one, alas not me
Can come and set their nightmare free
If that God's willÖ then it shall be
But maybe not this century

Ivor G Davies

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