` It is so simple, being lonely.

It`s there in the silence you make

To deny it, the silenc you make.

To accuse the unwary, the frankly alone.

In the silence you bring to a park

When you go there to walk in the snow

And you find in the planthouse, next to 

The orchids in winter slow motion

And sleeping, undreadalbe mosses 

Sick men, mad, half-born who are sitting

As longs as the afternoon takes.

Left there by helpers hours ago 

As if preparing for test

Each holds a book he cannot open. 

Some days you put togheter 

Sentences to say for them 

As you leave to go back to the street 

With work they might be epigrams 

Of love and modest government.

And this thought frees you.

You pick up the paper you eat or

you go to the library and talk .

But some days there is nothing 

You cannot know , you still live?

But it seems to take hours, labouring 

Back to the street thought the snowdrifts 

And not worth the effort.

It seems this is all there is

It happens like snow in a park, seen clearly

After days of admiration and looking 

As if it had always been there like a field 

Full of sience that is not beginning or ending 

It is so simple you just hadn`t looked 

And then you did , and couldn`t look away. ` 

Sean O` Brien