Dónal Donohoe

There are no tears, though the times may have flown
And none can see, the things I call my own
Everyday, working my way back home

Into the market place, where everyone must stray
With the simple tools, that they call their trade
The daily bread, keeps hunger instead delayed

The crowds pour in, when the night has grown
The singer sings, but the song’s unknown
Playing it clear, for those who can hear the tones

But you can laugh though fate, would leave you on your own
When you’d do the same, even if you’d known
The price you pay, to go on your own way home