The world grew silent, as the pen dropped still, When Seamus Heaney took his final breath, His words like whispers,…
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…
The quiet of the evening falls, A poet’s voice now gently fades, Across the fields and ancient walls, His spirit…
In fields where the furrows sing, Your words bloom like ancient oaks, Whispering tales of toil and grace, Carved in…