In fields where silence once held sway,
Now echoes of the past remain,
The poet’s pen, a gentle guide,
Through shadows cast by ancient pain.

Heaney’s words, like whispered leaves,
Tell tales of blood and whispered fears,
Yet in their depths, a hope resides,
A balm for wounds of troubled years.

The land he loved, both fierce and fair,
In verses woven rich and true,
Bears witness to the strife endured,
Yet dreams of skies forever blue.

Through lines of strength and tender grace,
Heaney’s voice, a beacon bright,
Illuminates the path ahead,
From darkest night to morning light.