Words seem to be without meaning.
Genocide bears a human face. A human heart. I cannot part with my half-secret, hungry heart. I crossed the broad Atlantic to Americky but left my heart in Ireland, in a village churchyard by the sea.
Warehouses stuffed with grain in Bristol. We suffered the potato blight. Starvation in plain sight. Walking skeletons. Families dumped out on the road by landlords' agents. No food for love nor money. Prayer will not awaken the landlords' hearts. Only guns and bullets will do that. Later. Much later. We must part.
The landlords worship only money. My heart is broken. I cannot stand. Too weak to cut off my own left hand, I follow her until her death. Then leave the land, alone, bereft. Head to the Atlantic coast A walking ghost.
Rot breeds rot. This fresh black word: starvation. Here in Ireland. Women and children die first. Her prayers awaken my tears and then awoke my fury. Mary, mother of God, she was a Jacobite jewel rooted in this wild beautiful land. Give me your dying hand.
The Holy, Roman Apostolic church in league with these English murderers. The son of God creates all desires. His prayers awaken my tears, and then He awakes my full fury, at this story, of the great hunger.