Collins From Opposite Hills
They have gone and killed
Ireland’s dream
With one foul crack
The same gun used so readily
In the purchase of her freedom
Has torn him from our land.
♞♜♝
The blood spill runs yet
Along country roads
Where brother has slain brother.
♞♜♝
A tall man, in shadow with no smile of victory,
But a grimace of pain for his own lost son.
In the house of Erin they weep
For another loved one devoured
By the beast of war
The country’s beauty contorted
With each convulsive intake of death
It exhales another piece of itself.
In mournful disbelief
They watch from opposite hills.
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