Deep blue in the eyes
of a sitting old guy,
the river is making
the way, at the sunset:
with peaceful "esses"
it traces the signature of God,
on the Ireland's soil.
the walls made hoarse
by mosses and fires
can't speak anymore
the echoes' language:
but all the faith
of Ceàrann's sons
just cannot get wasted,
and the wind, at sunset,
repeats on the grass
its very long amens.