---

There’s a river between us.
Because of Cromwellian features.

Not the Trent,
nor, the Shannon,
but, the Styx.

There’s an ocean between us.
Because of how far Cromwell, still, reaches.

Not the Pacific,
or, even, the Atlantic,
but, the briny depths of my dreams.

This insatiable thirst for the water of life.
This famishment for the salmon of knowledge.
This yearning, and, longing to know the refugee struggle.
Of, an, escaped to Mapled land, fleeing brother.

Causes painful strife, coloured; red, white, green, and, orange.

Living at the bottom of the great Hungerhill Road,
my solemn footprints become late, hunger-killed souls.

Underfoot;
the drying puddles are the dregs,
of colonial bloodlust never sated,
the littered grain is the leftovers,
of a famine fed on hatred.

Tiocfaidh ár lá, brother, and, bonne nuit,
until our souls meet again, full, and, free.

---

---