My wife is in Malta.
Egypt has erupted
In a bloodless coup.
Quake in Christchurch
Hundreds dead and missing
An Irishman among them
We bow our heads amen.
Libyans want liberty
Gaddafi wants to win
Rebels called ‘vermin’
Aims to eliminate
What end awaits him?
My wife is in Malta:
A haven for defectors
And freedom fighters
Flying the cage of death
Closing in on Tripoli
Our Irish fly out home.
Gaddafi battles on.
Ayesha cries for help
Talks to RTE from Tripoli
Bravely to the free world
Mass graves of heroes
All shot as traitors.
At home we face the music
Of recession getting deeper
Burnt out and bankrupt
In fear of being orphaned
Once fed by fat cats
We are feeling shrunken
Not like ourselves of old
Like frightened kittens
And all the cream is drank.
My wife is in Malta
But she is flying home today
And she’ll land in Kerry airport
Faraway from Tripoli
And I’ll be there to meet her
And I’ll hug her as I say
That she has a lovely suntan
Just to see her smile for me.
Before she went I asked her
If she could trap that light
That comes from Africa
Alluring glow across the sea
So I could have it here with me.
But the fabric of captivity
Of Gaddafi is torn to shreds
And the smouldering embers
Of a people long suppressed
Are flaming into freedom cries
Claiming their rights to Libya
Their homeland repossessed.
Matt Mooney
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/smouldering-embers/
