I BURIED FATHER’S HEART TONIGHT

‘

There’s a little glen in Ireland,

Where I buried Father’s heart,

It always beat for Ireland,

When the world was torn apart,

The fabric of our nation,

Was rent and scattered seed,

Then hearts that bled for Ireland,

On foreign fields would bleed.

I know his heart is beating,

It welcomes every dawn;

To live in hearts we leave behind,

Is better than to mourn,

When lullabies of evening,

Are sung to lunar light,

The moon as it is rising,

Lights father’s heart at night.

.

Michael Walsh Forbidden Poetry

‘They no longer need to imprison rebel writers like they did with Julian Assange. They just need to destroy your income generating mechanisms and silence you by taking away your means of making a living.’ –  JACKSON HINKLE