In fields where shadows whisper low,
The earth remembers silent cries,
Heaney’s words like rivers flow,
Beneath the troubled Irish skies.

The soil, a witness to the strife,
Holds secrets in its ancient clay,
Each line he penned, a breath of life,
Illuminating night and day.

The Troubles etched in every stone,
A tapestry of grief and grace,
His verses, seeds of hope they’ve sown,
In hearts that bear the scars of place.

Yet through the pain, the poet’s song,
A beacon in the darkest night,
Reminds us where we all belong,
In peace, in love, in truth’s own light.