In fields of emerald, where words take flight,
Heaney’s verses dance in the golden light.
Each line a journey, deep as the earth’s core,
Echoes of history, woven evermore.

The plowman’s son, with pen in hand,
Unearths the stories of a timeless land.
His gentle voice, a river’s flow,
Whispering truths that only poets know.

Amidst the peat and ancient stones,
He crafts a world where silence moans.
With every stanza, a window wide,
Into the heart where secrets reside.

O Seamus, shepherd of the past,
Your legacy, in words, shall ever last.
In every verse, the pulse of life,
A balm for sorrow, a light in strife.