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The field grew wild all that buzzing summer |
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We dozed a while, woke a little younger |
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Hung your clothes, waited on the weather |
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Thorn and rose twine and grow together |
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When did all the birds of Belfast learn to sing your name? |
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When did all those silver ashes breathe into flame? |
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Who are you without your sadness? Who am I without my shame? |
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When did all the birds of Belfast learn to sing your name? |
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Which was right, the fight or the surrender? |
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You my light, my solitary mender |
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Still the sun will rise on every weeper's mourning |
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Tear stained eyes, pearly light adorning |
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When did all the birds of Belfast learn to sing your name? |
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When did all those silver ashes breathe into flame? |
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Who are you without your sadness? Who am I without my shame? |
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When did all the birds of Belfast learn? |
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Who am I to sing a love song? Who are you to do the same? |
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With our weary little hearts full of broken little claims? |
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Will they even recognize us? Should I give you a new name? |
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And then all the birds of Belfast would sing it just the same |
