Daith o Saint Andrew - by
Haw, Andra, whaur’s yer God noo?
Naething lik bein stark deid, is there, pal?
Haw, Andra, whaur’s yer God noo?
Naething lik bein stark deid, is there, pal?
The dwarf with his hands on backwards
/ sat, slumped like a half-filled sack
/ on tiny twisted legs from which
/ sawdust might run,
/ outside the…
Exile I am, for to the last, I carry in my
/ heart the oak groves of Derry with their
/ white angels…
Hit hed ta be a saint at strayed dis far nort
/ at cared aboot da sowls o Pictish fisherfock.
/ Foo da bairns…
little saints buried saints
/ finally kissed by the earth
/ lilies from your parched mouths
/ from your salt lips
/ rise white and…
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