It is empty, the road, now
There is no music, or sport.
The young girls, beautiful,
At dance, they are not.
The boys, big, are not playing
Football and hurling during the day,
And they are not singing the songs.
There’s no-one that hears it.
The old people are not talking now
Of the Fianna to the young children,
And today they throw out
When there’s a small hole in a shoe.
The beautiful girls that are dancing.
They are false, are not true.
The road is empty tonight
In the north and the west.
The boys are in the tavern.
They are drinking again,
Looking at English football,
Singing and shouting at the television.
The old people use not their language
When they are talking to anyone.
They use the English
And look into the fire.
When the sun is sleeping at night
And finished for the day is its race
We see the dreams of De Valera:
They are false… broken… and dead.
© 2007 Tomás Ó Cárthaigh