"Like a virgin queen she stands, aloof, serene, timeless in her beauty while all about her men unhesitatingly give of their all-too-transient lives in the cause of her freedom. But when their temporal bodies are gone, reduced to a handful of dust which is trodden underfoot or scattered to the winds, she goes her eternal way with no thought for her heroes or martyrs. And still we come, and still we die, and still our ashes intermingle with those of her enemies whom we have slain — and who is there to tell the victor from the vanquished? Mistress, queen, mother (IRL) you demand nothing from us, yet we give you our all. Your gentle breath whispers our songs and tales of rebellion — or is it a cold wind which merely sweeps across your mountains and fields in chilling disregard for our struggles in your name?"
Easter Week, 1916.