For my mother.
I sit by the window as the rain
tumbles down
and I worry
about my sister.
Into town.
Back from town.
Repeat.
Clockwork schedules, ticktickticking
Bus 64 there
49 back
Ticket stubs stick to her hands.
But the world doesn't care
for schedules
It laughs
at them
at us
when the bombs go
off.
Dublin was happy
once.
No.
Dublin is happy
still.
But men in masks
and men in armour
are fighting once again
For The Republic or For England
forsaking humanity when
they fire.
Last week, I read about it.
The bus
went up in flames.
Children
turned to rubble.
Ashes prevailed
Darkness prevailed
Our hearts
f
e
l
l
within us
Our souls and our bones chattered.
Both sides talk their mouths off:
of religion
of freedom
of patriotic pride
But staring at the paper
or
Rushing down Grafton Street, heart pounding
or
Praying for change
We didn't care which side was to
blame.
My sister
She takes the bus
64 or 49
I wait for her each evening
by the windows
by the streetlights
I keep the radio on
Who let my homeland become this?
Who decided that this would be "the way?"
Children Burning
is not the way
Bullets Flying
is not the way
Makeshift Soldiers
Crying Mothers
BritishIrishBritishIrishBritishIrish
It is not the way.
It
Must
Change
Éire go deo,
Ireland, for always,
i síocháin.
in peace.
