The Irish Child

The Irish Child gathered rocks to fling at the English soldiers in the streets of Belfast.

Fire, from molotov cocktails made from bottles filled with petrol, launched at tanks rattling in the streets.

The Irish Child only knew war, not caring about political affiliations or even the reasons why.

Or even knowing anything about the conflict itself, only that his parent's were against the soldiers, and he would protect them with his life.

The Irish Child grew a scatterwag in the streets, banging bin lids in cobblestone street at the approach of soldiers.

Burning bottle, rock, glass, wood and finally bullet, though that was a game the adults played. The deadliest game of all.

Vale the Irish Child, weep the Irish child,

Cry for innocence, all for the Irish child.