Men with steely skin stand where others kneeled.
Uniforms discarded and defiance deliberated through determined abstinence.
Salty water and smiling screws for breakfast.
Struggles always find the smallest things, even during the darkest of nights.
Cages can never hold a dream.
Small birds through steel bars carry our hopes neath their free wings.
The smuggled words, contraband communications slipped through hopeful hands.
Paper thin notes passed and publicized with determination.
Scrawled on filthy British walls, their solution to our hungry struggle.
I remember when I was small,
My mother grew flowers from seeds, when they bloomed the bees came.
I watched them, provoked them and then captured one.
His wings washed the jam jar as I fastened the lid.
I dropped flowers in, each more colourful and perfumed than the last.
I tried to sell him a dream that was all mine, never his.
It mattered not, the bee was trapped, force fed flowers and denied his home, family and freedom.
Perpetually planning his escape.
I learned that day, that freedom is not easily won.
It spills from our ghosts tongues like raindrops falling from drenched leaves.
But nothing that is beautiful comes without toil and tears.
No such thing as an easily won Irish struggle.
Twisting the stubborn lid I heard a beautiful sound.
Wings buzzing, black and yellow beauty neath an Irish sky.
I would never do it again.
There is something special that only freedom can explain.
Let fallen men and thoughts of freedom forever light the way.
Hunger for justice, truth and beautiful things.
I read about them, the 22 men that is.
They starved, so we could feed.
But not for a pseudo republic written by men but deliberately sold by cowards in suits that cost more than their souls.
22 men told a story.
If you didn't listen then lend me your ear as I lend you my heart and soul.
A man with a pen and a revolution in heart is what the pretenders fear.
Imposters to our republic.
Never be afraid of the impossible.
Revolutions begin in the mind, the heart and in the souls of patriots.
Rebellion is the opening of hearts, the turning of fists, and the buzzing of wings.
It is not those that inflict the most but those that can suffer the most will conquer.
MacSwiney forever in my heart.
Stand proud as men and women once did and continue to do.
Hunger for the Republic and see it through.
An insatiable hunger until freedom is won.
I will never let the memories of men that proudly stood fall.
For right or wrong I tried to free my land.
➽Conor Lynam is a Dublin Republican