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Dafydd ©

Gordon Fjaelberg
Bridgend, Wales
1978

"Whither away, my young Dafydd?
I know that your prospects are grim;
There's damn little joy
For a school-leaving boy,
And hopes for the future are slim.

Will you escape, my young Dafydd,
Shall keg bitter see you all right?
No bottle or can
Yet produced half a man,
Though sometimes they shut out the night.

Go you away, my young Dafydd?
There's wisdom and choice, if you like.
There's more to this life
Than some chain-smoking wife,
And yesterday's Japanese bike.

Mountains are dead, my young Dafydd,
And grass is for cattle to chew.
The scenery's fine
But I cannot eat mine;
We called empty plates 'Rhondda Stew'.

Collieries close, my young Dafydd,
Their passing unmourned by us all.
Employment they gave,
And a slow, painful grave;
I knew boys who never grew tall.

Do you not see, my young Dafydd,
How truth shrivels up on the vine?
The valleys will sleep
And their secrets they'll keep;
There's no man has knowledge of mine.

Heartaches abound, my young Dafydd,
Too often it's heartaches I knew.
I've seen women cry
And a twelve year old die;
My shoulders have carried a few.

Never let go, my young Dafydd,
For life fosters hopes, so I've heard.
Yet hope isn't there
In those queues of despair,
Where sound advice just sounds absurd.

Go where you will, my young Dafydd,
And bid all the sadness adieu;
Just scribble a line
When you're sparing the time,
Our blessings will travel with you."



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