Elegy
They brought their music to the hills,
brooked no softening,
yet in time, the Appalachian mists
grew softer, the work less dire.
Their tunes recalled one Celtic root,
one that had broken the will of nations
to ever own them.
When they left those lands
they did not abandon them
but sought the high hills.
Now they are assailed
by their own young
who have forgotten to be free,
yet the very earth is planted
with their unyielding bloodlines.
They will be the last to surrender,
their history grows deeper
in each age of sorrow and joy,
for they’re an elegy as old and green
as distant hills everywhere.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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