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Tír Chonaill

Bells toll across glens

Calling barren lands to greet

Its Gospel, the Word.

Gunfire rumbles, a

Hungry scream echoes over

The waves, to Tory.

Wind howls. The windows,

Small, chatter: Níl aon tinteán

Mar do thinteán féin.

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Irish

Published: May 11, 2013
LinesWords: 937

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