The earth, turned by spade and pen,
Whispered tales of ancient men,
In fields of green where memories stay,
Heaney’s words still find their way.

The plough, the pen, the poet’s hand,
Carved out truths across the land.
In every line, a story spun,
Of toil, of love, of battles won.

With gentle grace, he painted scenes,
Of bogs and streams and rural dreams.
His verses, rich with Irish lore,
A treasure trove forevermore.

Though time moves on, his spirit stays,
In every word, in every phrase.
The echoes of his soulful art,
Beat on within our collective heart.