In the shadow of the mossy stones,
Where whispers of old wounds reside,
Seamus scribes in quiet tones,
Stories of a land that cried.

Fields once lush with emerald grace,
Now echo with the clamor of strife,
Yet in the heart of each troubled place,
Heaney finds the pulse of life.

Words like balm on fractured lands,
Binding tales of hope and pain,
Through the poet’s gentle hands,
Unity strives amidst the rain.

In the soil where memories sleep,
Heaney’s verses softly tread,
Voices of the past, they seep,
Awakening dreams that never fled.