© J. Canning 2015. All Rights Reserved.
They say that the beauty of Ireland’s green land,
Is the last piece of work by the Creator’s hand,
and the clear mountain waters that flow to the sea,
made the raindrops that carved this old island of green.
There’s welcomes for strangers that come to our land,
there’s music and blarney and welcoming hands,
there’s feasts of the finest and dances and reels,
but few know the truth of the ghosts in our fields.
Strong grows the dock weed ‘midst thistle and rush,
where the wild flowers dance to the winds of the south.
In the green fields of misery where lost infants sleep,
where at night they lie cold in the dark silent fields.
Not a stone nor a marker depicts tragic names,
as the living still search for the blood of their veins,
Lost in deep earth under…
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