They come to this town for the sea & the
wine,
To toast leathered wrinkles in endless sunshine,
It´s cheap, with no expensive gas & heating
to pay,
This town, where silvered heads, now sleepily
lay.
In mobility scooter, wheelchair & hobbling
bent canes,
Hawaiian shirts, socks & sandals & old
Zimmer frames,
Colourful old characters, with long-gone stories
to tell,
Walking history, with nothing to buy & nothing
to sell.
This Spanish town, where all pensions go further
by far,
They feel, by living here, they´ve found their
lucky star,
Pub-grub on patios & terraces, bingo &
quizzes by night,
Never mind the hearing aids & the failing
dulled sight.
It may look fun, but if you scratch their fragile
veneer,
There are many who are lonely & need merely
an ear,
Stop awhile & they´ll talk to you, of their
long lost years,
While down furrowed cheeks, run useless spent
tears.
They tell you they are lonely, in this strange
foreign land,
Children all gone to far places & no other
family to hand,
When you ask them, “Then why on earth do you
stay?”
”In my own country, pension`s are not sufficient
to pay”.
This is the town, of displaced, old & very
colourful souls,
Where loneliness, in hearts, eats away marching
holes,
They have the cheap sun, blue sea & the
red flowing wine,
But deep inside, there are places where the
sun cannot shine.
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