© Joe Canning 2015. All Rights Reserved. Tis not the wind that wails my friend, tis not the wind that howls, tis souls that walk this land today in search of coffin, shroud. Tis not a breeze upon thy face nor raindrop on thy brow, tis final breath and crying tear my friend, tis all around. Look! Can you see them? Wandering in eternal search of peace. Babes in arms on doomed redundant nipple. Pleading for a resting place and seeking priestly blessing. Listen! Can you hear their murmurings? Feel their breath exhausting, hear its ceasing. See those arms outstretched to beg for alms. The laughing and the cursing. Can you hear it? Landlord, soldier, Peeler, bailiff, sneering. Tis not the wind that wails my friend, tis not the wind that howls. Tis not the breeze that blows the leaves nor moves the passing clouds. Look! Can you see them? Gaunt and haunting, searching for a splash of Extreme Unction. Left and right, in front, behind, the masses in starvation, helpless scorned from killing fields of Connaucht. The children of sad Doolough, of Wexford, Skibbereen, tis not the wind that wails my friend, nor moves the grassy green. Listen! Can you hear those pleadings for succour and salvation? Tis not the wind that wails my friend, tis not the wind that screams. Tls not the wind that wails my friend, what chills thee is not cold. Tis not the wind that howls my friend, tIs souls that walk the roads. Tis not the breeze that moves the sail of phantom coffin boat, tis final exhalations of the doomed tossed overboard. Tis not the wind that wails my friend, tis Purgatorys jail. Tis not the wind that howls my friend, tis not the wind that wails.
Posted on: Tue, 27 Jan 2015 10:22:08 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015