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On Celtic notes of bagpipers
on the vast green highlands
behind those infinite pastures,
swaying pristine cherry-blooms leaves
with the melodies of autumn
winds, sits a mother nightingale
delicately twining, weaving ashen
wigs to build a nest for land’s
cold harsh winters for her
five little fragile babies
on Celtic lullaby of
bagpipers.
” On this brave land of martyrs
dwells aching women
longing for their
wounded men
to come
home.”