Your heroes were all murdered
Whilst you counted crows
Oneforsorrow, oneforpain, oneforgold
Growing amongst the ashes
Of relative fears and lost
Mentors, lost to a warunrecognised
Bathed in sectarian lies
(And he's not coming home again)
Died for the lost soul for which
We all learned to search.

The gunshot wounds of bleeding
American dollars, to give and not to
Understand to help but to hinder as
We asked God save Ireland; buried in the bog
A churchly people, entombedinsuperstitious
Tokens of remorse and hope and snakes
Driven away from brownstone,
Mummified families, aching for the sun
And with the blood of the Druids…
We got the graffiti of the stricken.

Thirty years gone by
And a thousand walkingdead
To see the lie is real, yet
Gaelic is on the street signs
And granny still reads tea leaves
In the parlour where they laid him out
A wake for all seasons, waiting
Waiting while you blossomed to a soft ripe
Peach so lovelytenderneedful…but
With hardened seed inside.

by Míchealín Daugherty

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