The rain last night came tip-toeing,
His bag was full of iced promises,
Soon they melted into seas; salty,
Our eyes regretted beholding.
We begged the night with dying words
On our sick-beds from broken wards,
Our pain stood as witness,
Our cries became never less.
A new sun rose from the north,
His first touch carried rays of top notch;
Rays that can strike a beggar into a lord,
Under, we dried our wetness and blessed God.
But this sun loves blood more than ordinary,
Like a parasite he sucks stylishly,
Our thumbs now cry 'Weak-Low' (Wicklow);
The thumb that pushed this sun to glow.
With our minds running backward
Through the paths that pierced our soles - souls,
We only wished the rain never took our hats - hearts,
This sun won't be a 'bored-den' - burden.