The Men of Art have lost their heart,
They dream within their dreams.
Their magic sold for price of gold
Amidst a people’s screams.
They sketch the moon and capture bloom
With genius, so they say.
But n’er they sketch the quaking wretch
Who lies in Castlereagh.
The poet’s word is sweet as bird,
Romantic’s tale and prose.
Of stars above and gentle love
And fragrant breeze that blows.
But write they not a single jot
Of beauty tortured sore.
Don’t wonder why such men can lie,
For poets are no more.
Óglach Bobby Sands MP
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Great Poem.
ReplyDeleteI often wonder how many Journalists at the time and no doubt still are in the pay of the British intellgence services.