In the shadow of the rolling hills,
Where whispers of the past reside,
Heaney’s words weave tales of strife,
Of lands where shadows cannot hide.

The Troubles painted in his lines,
Echoes of a time so fraught,
With every verse, a memory stirs,
Of battles fought and peace long sought.

The land of green, of sorrow steeped,
Through Seamus’ eyes, we see the pain,
The hope that rises from the ash,
A phoenix soaring after rain.

His poetry, a mirror held,
To a world in turmoil and in grace,
A testament to human will,
In every tear and every face.