How the windy plains,
Hides the whispers of personal anguish,
Those villages left behind by time.
The land of Seamus Heaney,
The poetry of large stones, marking
Borders, and games of Gaelic football
Kicks and catches, that
Go marching forward, while
In the middle of town, rest,
The archetype Church, the tinted
Glass and the stones that were
Moved, to furnish the foot-wide walls.
How this land, of prayer
And throngs of nuns on push cycle,
Embraces one night of cavorting fun,
How there are streets alive,
Till the wee hours of the morning,
The poetry of beer flowing
Through the lumen of an esophagus,
The lone hand of time, giving
A lesson of mammoth proportions,
How this land, where once
Collins and De Valera, stirred
On the marching crowds, now lives
On the edge of the Atlantic,
Salty winds on one side,
And a little channel on the other.
How little whispers, torment a nation,
The robed ones, who disrobed
To scandal, how a nation tries
To forget the turmoil, glugging-away,
The froth of a bamboo yellow drink,
How difficult to forget the bitter remnants of the past,
That footprints of mankind gone bad.
The winds will blow through
Rock formations, sea cliffs and open meadows,
Carrying along the rumors,
That can topple large rock-built
Chambered monuments, stone by stone,
Saint by saint, until there is nothing left,
But a blanket of guilt.