Ode to Èirinn and Alba

     She searched for them all; ancestors passed. The more she found; her heart shattered fast.
     Coffin ships; indenture; starvation, the fate of her people grim. Chest heavy, mind disturbed, eyes dim.
     The human condition of power; elimination for those who will not bow. Devised plans to undo their way of life because it didn’t fit your puzzle; wow.
     Mouth hung open at the atrocities done. Her tears fed her, they became her strength as she drank some.
     Ball in the pit of her stomach, bitter, salty tears dripped down her throat. Revenge, not with weapons or war; she’d use her pen; she’d speak up, vote.
     Success would be her dagger; triumph the blow to the chest. The blood of her ancestors ran through her veins. They’d triumph with her, they’d finally rest.

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