The sun comes up over Belfast,
and the rain falls on green hills
and runs down the streets
of Shankhill and the Falls.

Sheets of wet,
thunder pours out of the clouds
and my leather boots
are soaked all the way through.

I stand in a graveyard of volunteers,
men who died for their truth,
under a sky that turns from blue to grey,
and a mountain that turns from green to black.

In a walled city, a divided land,
a man tells me of his truth,
a holy and murderous song,
that although has quieted,
will never be completely silent.

He’s simple man, standing in the graveyard
of his comrades, of his friends, his brothers.
Beside the Crucifix and the Virgin Mary,
he speaks of the freedom and unity that he killed for.
That they died for.

Between murals and peace walls,
friends by day are enemies at night.
No Legislation, segregation, nor integration,
not even a few pints of Guinness in the city centre,
can make this country neutral ground.

05/19/2009

Author's Note: I am in Northern Ireland studying race, religion, and conflict.

Posted on 05/19/2009
Copyright © 2024 Lindsay Sanders