AtLast_[07]

>> Manx <<

They would tell you that it was the potato that failed. Mark this, it was man that failed. Denied even the dirt they were driven into An entire people, En masse, To pass away. Dissembling ink comes up red. Whose greedy hands dipped into this blood of generations, Fingers dripping of confiscation, Licked clean?

Fuchsia swarms the roadside But cannot perfume the fallen nor that lingering smell,

Stench of realization, Unuttered desperation, And futile craving Along long trails of stumbling want Dragging toward Loch Inne On to Heart's Inlet Where only bones climbed aboard Flesh and soul long absorbed.

That hardfisted steeple of the church on Cobh Hill Clung to the sky