The fields whisper your name, Seamus, Your words, a melody of the soil, Each furrow, a line of verse, Ploughed…
The earth, turned by spade and pen, Whispered tales of ancient men, In fields of green where memories stay, Heaney’s…
In fields where shadows whisper low, The troubles churn, a bitter flow. Seamus weaves his words with care, A poet’s…
In the quiet hours of twilight’s embrace, I see her hands, worn yet full of grace. The gentle touch that…
In the quiet fields where you once roamed, Your voice now rests, your spirit homed. The pen that carved the…
In the shadow of history’s weight, Heaney’s pen bled ink and truth, Through fields of green and sorrow’s gate, He…
In the soft whisper of the twilight’s end, She cradled me with hands worn by toil, Her smile, a beacon…
In the quiet of the Irish dawn, Where verdant fields meet sky and sea, A poet’s voice once softly sang,…
The fields of Ireland whisper your name, In every blade of grass, in every grain of soil, Your words, like…