The crown can feel hate, fear and shame—
never gratitude for starving a nation into sailing across
the western ocean—thousands sailing in a coffin
ships to break the chains of poverty in hopes of bellies full & bodies free,
but the hand of opportunity draw tickets from a lottery;
spirits celebrate in their hearts forever
the that land that makes them refugees—while those
who never got so far that they could change their names are robbed
of their toil to stuff the bellies of sentinels mowing down rising crowds
in the crown-jewel of the empire never kissed by moonlight.


How long with the Island remain silent
when ghosts haunt the waves?
Éire: within its minds sit hopes of peace