In fields where shadows linger long,
Heaney weaves his timeless song,
Of lands where silence speaks of fear,
And echoes of the past draw near.

The soil remembers each troubled tread,
Stories of those who wept and bled,
Heaney’s words, a gentle balm,
In verses deep, they find their calm.

Amidst the tumult, a poet’s grace,
Capturing loss in a restless place,
With every line, a woven thread,
Binding the living to the dead.

Through valleys scarred by whispered woes,
Hope in Heaney’s cadence grows,
A bridge between the now and then,
Healing hearts with ink and pen.