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Torn.

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Torn.

 

I’m not reconciled,

After all life’s toil,

In this South to abide,

In its stony soil.

 

Nor beside that quarry,

Though She lies there,

Is my choice to tarry,

For my last repair.

 

There’s a stone garden,

In a Meath corner,

Named for my patron,

Where I would inter.

 

Raise above me a bench,

For those wont to mourn,

Who in grief’s wrench,

Would pray for my soul.

 

At a familiar place,

Let the world pass bye,

And if it turn a face,

Over where I might lie,

 

Beyond the hills of Loughcrew,

And their wooded fringe,

Let them praise the view,

And not sorrow tinge.

 

©Copyright Fergus Carty 2020

One Comment

  1. Kusum says:

    Sad mournful touching the core of my heart

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