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Jun 2016
Dangling on strings in an old wooden shed,
the puppets wait with hanging heads.
Dust filters through a shaft of light.
Everything's still and silent as night.

Suddenly the door opens with a boom.
The Puppet Maker enters the dusty room.
His smile is wide; he’s dressed in his best,
as he grabs the puppets from their rest.

The orange sun sets as he walks along,
The dusty roads, whistling songs.
The puppets are tucked in a bag underarm,
while they pass through the town and reach a farm.

A stage is set up for the puppet show,
They’re pulled from their bag and lowered below.
The quiet wood shed forgotten and past;
Replaced with bright cheering and many laughs.
Píaras Ó Cíonnaoíth
Written by
Píaras Ó Cíonnaoíth  Ireland
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