Will you remember me my darling and dwell on our short time, leave away the final hours and what they called my crimes.
Think of moments walking and breathing in the dew, the silence of a captured man, a servant bound to you.

Sadness always followed me for long I knew my fate was standing with my countrymen defending Ireland’s gate.
The howl of our rich soil besmirched of liberty, echos in our consciousness it is our hearts decree,
We will not kneel, we will not yield to tyrants in our lands,
The bullet is expected by the men that choose to stand.

And knowing that my narrow path was filled with blood and pain, knowing that my body was a pawn within the game.
My consciousness was woken from a slumber deep within, your presence in my life that while absolved my way of sin.

But only for a speck of time our courting did caress, the moments counted on one hand, they were my sad life’s best.
Listening to your ramblings was life’s fruit but to me, a cup of crystal water to a sailor lost at sea.

Will you remember me darling, think kindly of the days we walked the fields and footpaths and all the alleyways.
I can’t recall your stories, I don’t know what I said, all that I know is your sweet voice was needle and the thread,
That pierced my skin and found the parts remaining of my soul and stitched them to your memory to last beyond the fold.

In the morning they will take me and stand me me in the light, they’ll stand me on a shaky bench, no longer will I fight.
I won’t ask for forgiveness, I won’t repent my sins, I won’t display the sorrow that I feel deep within.
All I will request, from my maker and my guide, all I will demand from him, when we meet eye to eye, is that you will remember me not on the shaky bench but walking in your shadow my conscious in you drenched.

Know this for all time, that in the morning when he calls, when the ferryman demands his debt and when I take the fall.
I walk alone to purgatory a prince of stranded souls for once I met an angel on the banks of the river Suir.

I watched a magpie pondering the mysteries of life,
He perched upon a sagging line, taking in the sights.
Sixteen wheelers rampaged through the space beneath his feet,
He cared as much as streetlights do when flies upon them meet.

Other winged adventurers regarded him with care,
Their courtesies were kept in check, exchanges very rare.
Not only those that scaled the skies but those that climbed the poles,
Surveyed the magpie’s presence as the blacksmith eyes the coals.

The lion’s share of creatures with effort can be tamed,
But the chalky, charcoal wanderer, all efforts are in vain.
He will not go directed, he does not fear the hand,
He struts along a footpath as the mustang pounds the land.

Some find beauty in the birds that surf the wind like sails,
Eagles, Hawks and Falcons, but me, I think they fail.
They fail the test of nerve, they can be called to heel,
The bold and dauntless black and white was never known to kneel.

There is no shame in walking to the strict beat of the drum,
The cause won’t cross the finish line lacking numbers in the scrum,
And beauty most would testify is in colours and design,
The structure of perfection to few God did assign.

But I would argue differently and of this I am sure,
Beauty is a simple thing common, bland and pure.
Beware of gazing blindly when the wizard shakes his hand,
While your attention was absorbed you missed the truly grand.

What’s truly great and wonderful, as the saying goes of old,
Won’t be found on pedestals, all that glitters is not gold.
The worlds delights will not be found in the neighbourhood of fame,
It hides within the masses, to most it looks the same.
But train your eye to look beyond where most will fall their gaze,
And you will find the special kind that truly do amaze.

Truer words were never spoken when a blind man said to me, I lost my sight in a foreign land for my country to be free.
He said he smelled the devils breath in bombed out factories and on the crest of every gust the gas that burned the trees.
Cold and sick and starving thin he fought for what he knew, for the liberty of masses and the dignity of few.

“In trenches drenched with blood and sweat, water, wind and pain, we stood full ankle deep in mud and played the devils game.”
Boys were turned to hardened men, the devil made the rounds,
Screaming souls in search of limbs, his savage knew no bounds.

But Old Nick was caught counting, his eggs before they hatched, for all his pride and vanity was soundly over matched.
No gas or bullet, blade or shell can stop the truth of time,
A free man’s thirst to fight for life, his gift from the divine,
Cannot be quenched by gold or pride or hollow victory,
Free men fight with the might of ten bound by tyranny.

But from his empty blackened pits where vision once called home he shed a tear and whispered “our liberty has gone.”
He said he heard a fellow speak while resting on his bed, this young man spoke of our brave troops, but pride was all but dead.
The souls that keep a nation warm and Old Nick from the door he soiled there name and trampled on the pride that was before.
He took for granted words and speech , he used with such prowess,
Given to him by the cry of many, dying for the rest.

And in his hollow verbiage entwined with falsity,
He offered solace to the devil, he invites misery.
Who could call the race and guess the tale of time, who knew that drunk on freedom we’d turn on the divine.

I asked him in the silence of what he thought the times,
He said before he drifted off “I’ll tell you one last time.”
“Brave boys once were turned to men in the blinking of an eye,
Question they did not, ready, they stood to die.
They did it for their homes, their families and fields against tyranny and ******* never, would they yield.
Young men fret today about the colour of their shoes,
Their pride is but a shadow, their virtue hollow through. If this is all that keeps us from the devil then it’s true, I fear for every soul, for the lives of me and you.”