In the homes of Ireland from North to South and East to West,

The Republic lies sleeping under the stairs,

By now surely comatose but somehow still living,

Awaiting some resurgence to spring anew,

If one should ever come,

 

Dear Comrades,

The fault is not in the stars but in ourselves:

Have we succumbed to pawing over greasy tills,

To be thinking only of ourselves,

Our vision has narrowed to that of an Ant,

Being wedded only to the past,

Our failure was to not move with the times,

For this is not 1916, or even ‘81,

And today will it be worth another mother’s son?

To commemorate may be a fine and honorable thing,

But now we too must stand with the living, nay?

 

~ Gamhain MacCionaoith

Na Cealla Beaga

Mí Eanáir, 2026