Burning Desire by Peadar O’Donoghue

I am not a silent poet

We burned the witches,
the peasant cottages,
our bridges, the turf,
the breakfast, our winter skin
under the summer skies,
we burned diesel, petrol, money,
we burned down the road,
we burned bright under dark clouds,
we burned chances like confetti,
everything we ever had, wanted, needed,
went up in smoke, our lives,
the next generation, their futures,
everything in lusting lick of flame.

Except the bondholders.

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