Crossroads

If you could capture the now

Freeze it in captivity

What dour changes would you find

Trapped in the barbs of history?

The earth is rumbling under force of new feet

The dirt is shifting to the east

The withered stalks bow to a new breeze

There's a grind we can feel in all our bones

A foreign tongue has a leash on the land

The Queen’s English has kind hands around our throats

Giving up on trying to make us change

Instead they gift us with new signs and new names

The outsiders come to measure our words

Tailor our sounds to suit their intentions

Preoccupied with the pleasantries of a quiet conversion

Yet with the determined dignity of an Empire’s will

Some have the awkward grace of respect

The Saxon desire imbued in their work

To breathe in the smoke of Ireland’s fire

But we must look them in the eye down the barrel of a gun

What will they find, dismantling our land

A place drowsy with its own beauty

Drenched in culture, soaked in silent sameness

Lame after years of dreaming its own existence

All the lessons we’ve taught ourselves

In the houses of wisdom buried in the dirt

All to be smothered by the wave of new words

A premature funeral march for the soon dead languages

Language we have, but never a voice

The constant medley of stagnant progress

Parnell, O’Connell, the mystical echoes of Wolfe Tone

We listen to all, thus now we are confusedly deaf

Some find the new voices suit their ears

And their tongues were made for the modern talk

Now they rise with the sun, and bow to The East

And have washed their mouths out with English soap

Others see futures as theirs to construct

Breaking the chains of Irish self

Demanding the proud progression of sea

Away from the rotting stalks and browning green

Yet Ireland’s change is departing its home

And stubborn roots refuse to be pulled

Either blinding ourselves as to not see their sense

Or furiously drawing blood from the foreign hand that feeds

So here we all stand, at crossroads divisive

The edge of The West, the middle of nowhere, the centre of the battle for the world

The Irish may depart on the roads they want to see

But, where then, will Ireland be?

by Halligan Quin

This entry was posted by Neil Keating, on Sunday, 17 February 2008. You can leave your response.