Little land so fresh and green, <br />strangers walk upon your head. <br />You gave your hands to keep it clean, <br />thumbs alive but eight are dead. <br />In their wooden box they lie, <br />made from your finest trees. <br />Upon their graves I watched you cry, <br />leaves down with the breeze. <br /> <br />So now they sleep inside your heart, <br />their souls forever free. <br />Never again to be apart, <br />twas where they longed to be. <br />They are gone yet trouble lingers, <br />with the blackbirds song. <br />But once the hand has lost it's fingers, <br />the thumbs themselves grow strong.<br /><br />joe mannion<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/loughgall/
