these stones were older
than my heart
and my feet not heavier
than the horses - poor sods - hooves
who haul the tourists
clueless as ever
and the bricks redder
than my knees
the road grittier than my palms
from begging for it all to stop
this people this masque this orb
fruitless as ever
over my horizon
your eyes blink
i pick up
the pieces of my cross
by shamrock
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