Letras
The blade is buried. The bridle hangs.
The blood has dried on Irish fangs.
And on the wind, no trumpet wails
Just silence riding ancient trails.
I did not weep when he was felled.
His crown meant naught to those he shelled.
No tear for tyrant, no kiss for throne
But for my dead, I grieved alone.
Eight sisters lost to smoke and flame,
Their lullabies now ghosts without name.
A mother hanged, her hands still warm,
A father torn by redcoat swarm.
I saw their faces every night.
I rode not just for rage, but divine right.
Not vengeance blind, nor wrath unjust
But love that put revenge within my trust.
And now they rest.
Their names restored.
Their songs returned, though breath is poured
Into the soil where courage died
And bloomed againWhen I first cried.
The king is ash.
The crown is coal.
The world turns again, I am whole.
For what was taken,
Once drowned in shame,
By grief, by gallop,
Lantern reclaimed.