What was it that had calmed us
Through the centuries of neglect.
Driven outward by the
Sad mantra of despair.
Like mountains covered in their
Forever looking inward as our
Histories hardened against us.
We became nomads in our own land.
Lost in the infinite Atlantic swell,
Searching for the lost voice
Of our people, stillborn in the
Poverty and dearth of ourselves.
Like Oisin we had slept, dreaming
Of the great promise but only finding
Starvation and the yellow meal
Casting us adrift, lost to the world.
Bound by the self inflicted blows
Of religion and doubt.
Yet still she calls us
Whispering over the epoch of our lives
Becoming loudest as we stray.
Like a cold splinter in our soul
She has claimed us for her own
And holds us forever in her thrall.