In fields where shadows whisper tales,
The echoes of a poet’s voice prevail,
Seamus Heaney’s ink, so deep, so frail,
A chronicler of strife, where hearts assail.

Through muddy lanes and ancient stones,
He painted life in somber tones,
The Troubles’ scars, in every bone,
A nation’s grief, in verse alone.

With every stanza, every line,
He captured sorrow, time to time,
In Ireland’s heart, his words entwine,
A legacy of wounds, sublime.

Yet in the darkness, hope would gleam,
In Heaney’s eyes, a distant dream,
For peace to flow in every stream,
And end the Troubles’ endless theme.