In the shadow of history’s weight,
Heaney’s pen bled ink and truth,
Through fields of green and sorrow’s gate,
He captured the turmoil of youth.

With every stanza, a tale unspun,
Of trenches deep and hearts that break,
The Troubles’ echo, a relentless drum,
In verses clear, the past awakes.

His words, a bridge to times forlorn,
Between the strife and peace we seek,
Through wounds of old, new hope is born,
In Heaney’s lines, the weary speak.

A poet’s voice in troubled air,
He gave the silenced soul a song,
Through Seamus Heaney’s tender care,
The Troubles’ pain, he bore along.