In fields of green, where shadows play,
Heaneyâs words paint a troubled day.
Echoes of past, in verses clear,
Whispering tales of pain and fear.
From Derryâs streets to Ulsterâs cries,
His pen unveils the hidden lies.
With every line, a truth unfolds,
Stories of those, in silence, told.
The Troubles marked in ink and soul,
Heaneyâs lines, a troubled scroll.
Through darkened times, his voice remains,
A beacon through the endless rains.
Yet hope persists in every rhyme,
A future bright, beyond the grime.
Heaneyâs words, a bridge to peace,
In every stanza, wounds release.