The Lark has lost the will to fly,
On Belfast’ streets, the mourners stand,
Britain’s hand has forced the death
Of the revolutionary, Kieran Docherty.
In Andersonstown, were the bold tricolour flies
Grandfather talked of Connolly and Collins,
But in August of ’81, he cried another tear
As he walked in the procession behind Kieran Docherty’s coffin.
As Ireland buries her heroes and martyrs,
Britain should hang her head in shame,
As Kieran Docherty fought for freedom
And gave his life to Ireland’s name.
In the H-Block cells, he spoke of resistance
As his spirit fought the brutality and torture,
His soul will live for a thousand generations
As he died for Ireland, an Irish Republican soldier.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem