Famine Road Poem by John F. McCullagh

Famine Road



Once these hands made music; never more!
Oh, to have my bow and fiddle would be grand.
I have lost my home and all possessions
ever since the Famine gripped our land.
Now I place stone on stone upon this hill.
My fingers cracked and bloodied shifting shale.
To earn a crust of bread we labor daily
To build this road to nowhere they command.
At gunpoint, they have stripped our fields of grain;
exporting food from this our starving land.
They hate us for our stubborn superstition;
We poor wraiths who suffer like the dammed.
We labor without hope upon this hill.
Our sweat and blood expended- but for what?
A road to nowhere built straight and true.
a monument to those who God forgot.

Monday, April 24, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: history
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
In Ireland's Est can be seen the Famine roads to nowhere that the satrving Irish were made to build by the British in exchange for a pittance of food.
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
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