In this land of loughs and dry burials
The invisible lends itself into visibility
In the dialect of words – tattered,
Stained, inadequate – visceral words
Spew like blood from a gargoyle
Into this mist-ridden air where these
Pagan burrows hide the dead inside 
Blessed Earth: dogs still dig for bones
And the music fills the very air
Lacerated by the explosions of anger
We see upon the red faces of the clerics
Who continue their assault upon the innocent
And whatever you say, say nothing
And where a Derry air can still be heard
Plaintively, calling these unburied dead.