Heritage
In my secret heart I’ve felt
Like a blood-crazed Celt,
Scottish, Irish, either one,
Killing Britons with my gun.
Or with broadsword or with knife,
Dirk, or dagger, taking life
In an Ulster alleyway,
Or Culloden Moor that day.
Smoke and blood on heather grass,
Celtic reverie must pass,
Like a distant, dimming dream
Drowning in a dank, swift stream.
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2009
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