This all too familiar scene—
When no Irish word of mine
Can wipe away the horror clean;
Embrace the plaza of men
And women hurtling through
The air; tossed like meat
Bones to phantom dogs
Among the desolate
Wail of despair

When no word can cradle
The implosion of heads;
Comfort the dumb pain
Of the living, on their slow
March towards a table
In the making of talk,
Where even the voices
Of the innocent dead
Might also be heard.