In fields of green, where shadows play, Her gentle voice would guide the way. Through whispers soft, in twilight’s glow,…
In fields where the wild grasses grow, The words of Heaney softly flow. His pen, a plough that tills the…
In fields where shadows whisper tales, The echoes of a poet’s voice prevail, Seamus Heaney’s ink, so deep, so frail,…
In fields of emerald, memories unfurl, Her hands, worn yet tender, teach and twirl, Through tales of old, in whispers…