At_Last

Leaving ghastly round-house ruins With unkept pointed caps astray

That pock the face of baron lands, Gentle folk all gone away. Evictions. Specious convictions. Absentee cold derelictions. But never a clear depiction to show The hand of death That gripped across our Irish sea of woe Crushing fragile flesh to ash That blows in dunes in west Mayo Un-urned remains of marchers past Trudging fast of duty ducked Unearned perdition in Connacht. Denial's silence all these years Renews that crime against my kin No peace will come til Britain dares To speak in censure of that sin. I'll grant them that in older days Mankind's worth had little play, Empire building but a phase, But this is now, today. Forget amends or being friends. They must leave. Withdraw. Just go away. Lords who looked aside detached Will snare in webs of spiders hatched From Connacht's ghosts of dust that dwell In

Heaven's spinnings, weaves of

hell.

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