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The Number One Bus ©

Gordon Fjaelberg
Bridgend, Wales
1968

The Number One Bus
Is coming to carry me home;
My hair is untidy
But I don't own a comb.
The battered old case
Sits heavily in my hand,
Yet I don't mind,
The weight I can easily stand.

After so long
I'm here again,
Seeing my family,
Seeing my friends,
When the Number One Bus
Arrives
To carry me home.

The Number One Bus,
Inside, is friendly and warm,
But while I am waiting
I'm reveling in the storm.
The feel of that rain
Caressing my cheeks again,
A finer returning
Nobody could demand.

Soon I'll be able
To forget
Things I've done,
Things I regret,
When the Number One Bus
Arrives
To carry me home.

The sound of your voice
Will be as a dream renewed,
Just feeling your warmth
Like I've yearned a time or two.
With a daughter comes hope
Of futures still to be;
The Number One Bus
Is bringing these joys to me.

Looking forward,
Looking back,
I'm thinking of things
I can't retract;
When the Number One Bus
Arrives,
It carries a load.

The Number One Bus
Is late, but I don't complain.
No bitterness now,
Normality once again.
The folly of war
Recedes, turning slowly numb;
The Number One Bus
Is late, but it will come.

Soon I'll be able
To forget,
Things I've done,
Things I regret;
The Number One Bus
Is here,
To carry me home.


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