In desolate Newfoundland, the winds howl low,

where dreams once flourished, now shadows grow.

Her cliffs stand guard, but what do they keep?

Our land rich in history, but its spirit weeps.

Jobs like whispers, lost in the mist,

Elitist roam freely, as if they exist on a plane above a struggle,

untouched by the grind, while the hopeful toil hard, their futures maligned.

Like Faust with his yearning, tempted by gold,

the heart seek salvation, yet the promised feels cold.

Interviews linger like specters in the night,

each unanswered call dims that flickering light.

Lies wrap the truth in a velvet embrace, education is key they tell us, a race.

But the classrooms are empty, and resources are thin,

the cycle of struggle seems destined to spin.

Yet still, there is a fire that flickers inside,

in the eyes of the dreamers who refuse to abide.

For every dark night, there will be a dawn that will break, and desolate Newfoundland,

new paths we will make!

M. S Chandler