Parted yet joined from birth this bloody war still flows in streets that quiver with remembrance.

One God looks on as each tribe follows a just cause - blindness is kindled by vengeance.

Teaching their children how to sing - but not those fiddle songs of old.

Oh no - but would we not, if we were they - with brothers gone, and sisters slain?

Vendettas board the Tipperary train, white collars ramp and rage. Preparing for another round they fix their sights to stage, just one more battle ground, before the life force sets, or  prayers have blessed the grave.

As hats are passed from hand to hand so conflict hides from Uncle Sam.

Far, far away pulses soften, become quiet, and mothers wept once more.

In this fragmented hell once named the Emerald Isle.