Poetry from the dead



Lost words from generations,
That have soared a thousand skies;
Have found me in a garden in Paraguay..
Faces, blood that soaked the Celtic soil
Where the first longships arrived;
From Clontarf, down to Sackville Street,
Memories of a lost race, still survive.

I am haunted, by their voices,
As the the last one of the line;
They have blessed me with their burdens,
But their sins,are also mine.

© Fingleton (Septembre 2016) (Löst Viking)

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