I, a poetess like many blame my people,
for the rage and ruin my life has crumbled to form.
Twisting villains and heroes to worship, destroy and blame.
Like Saint brigids cloak I cover vast lands of truths untold,
hidden in the modern ogham I tell my tales.
I run gasping to fill my lungs with worldly senses,
denying my roots to caress the clouds. The ground I stand on never changing me but guiding me slowly,
towards words that shape me,
I weep for Croí na hÉireann.