I hear they rejoice in
simple pleasures, sing
with strangers on
cobblestone streets, and
make foreigners feel
at home, their hearty
laughter and hearty
meals familiar,
they are your kin.
I hear they write
poetry, they're
famous for it
and their sunsets
are glorious.
1 comment:
I like how a good portion of this poem comes from the History of Ireland notes I was reading you the other day.
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