Farewell To Pripchat Christy Moore

It was a Friday in April 1986
The day that the nightmare began
When the dust it rained down on our buildings and streets
And entered our bedrooms at noon
Touched the grass and the streets, bicycles, cars
Beds books and picture frames too
We stood around, helpless, confused
Nobody knew what to do

At two o'clock on Sunday the buses arrived
A fleet of a thousand or more
We were ordered to be on our way
Not knowing what lay in store
Some of our citizens fled in dismay
And looked for a good place to hide
Four o'clock came and the last bus pulled out
T'was the day our lovely town died

And the shirts sheets and handkerchiefs crack in the wind
On the window ledge the withering plants
And the Ladas and Volga's are parked by the door
And the bike's in its usual stance

Our evergreen trees lie withered and drooped
They've poisoned our fertile land
The streets speak a deafening silence
Nothing stirs but the sand