In the morning,
When first light begins to saturate the air,
In the morning,
When the night is put to flight,
And the blossoming hawthorns,
Willingly accept the dew.

In the morning,
They are singing,
A chorus of ardent noise,
Of things unsaid by human tongue.

Cant you hear the names of the Pagan dead,
And all those misty tales,
Of Christian treachery,
Tragedy and dread?

Men,
Women,
Children slain,
And those who survived,
Force fed with bread and wine.

The soil ripped from their hands,
And their lands,
Claimed and divided,
By foreign thieves,
All hideous,
All diseased.

You gods of sky and earth,
When will our resentments cease,
And the birds in the morning,
Silent be?
When will these dues be done,
And the currency of revenge,
Paid in full?

© DP Jones 22/05/10

published september 2010

Thanks for youre comment.