There’s a certain romantic pull that a place like Ireland has on our souls. You picture visiting there with a pub with a mossy roof on every corner. As you drive through the countryside, green hills, the misty grayness giving way to reveal another castle, Celtic crosses, red-haired lasses in horseback, historic shit must abound.
I was on the outside when you said,
You said you needed me.
I was looking on at myself.
I was blind, I could not see.
A boy tries hard to be a man.
His mother takes him by his hand.
If he stops to think, he starts to cry,
If you walk away, walk away,
I will follow.
Your eyes make a circle,
I see you when I come in here
It’s your eyes.
And bridges, right there in Dublin town!
And poetry. Those Irish have a way with words.
“We were small and thought we knew nothing
Worth knowing. We thought words travelled the wires,
In the shiny pouches of raindrops,
Each one seeded full with the light
Of the sky, the gleam of the lines, and ourselves,
So infinitesimally scaled,
We could stream through the eye of a needle.
— Seamus Heaney, The Railway Children
And just so you want think U2 is the only band from Ireland.
Another head hangs lowly,
A Child is slowly taken.
And the violence caused such silence.
Who are we mistaken?
But you see, it’s not me, it’s not my family.
In your head, in your head, they are fighting.
With their tanks and their bombs and their bombs and their guns,
In your head, in your head, they are crying.
In your head, in your head
— The Cranberries
All things Irish. A good thing.