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“Sands in South Armagh.” A poem by Tim Holland.

Hunger was good discipline.
As good as any other.
 
Intransitive: we starved as a people.
Transitive: you starved yourselves.
Distinction: made.
Next: “Non serviam,” spoken in the language of one of the two masters.
 
Abraham needs:
nothing
Food water oxygen shelter sleep
Next: no next.
Belonging.
Always be longing.
Belonging to hunger.
 
Self-actualizing: control by means of self-deprivation.
 
Still? ibid.
 
Love: easy to give.
Loyalty: in tact.
Thought: complete.
Companionship: infrequent.
Day 66 = Day 65+1.
Surgically repeat.
 
Not feeling
hungry, but knowing
hungry.
Sleep: insufficient.
Strength comes from: N/A
Non serviam, Yes? No.
 
Scars visible?
Some: armies.
 
There are rockets in the South.
News: attended to.
War: (more) imminent.
 
The way they worked an gorta mor was objectively brilliant.
Starve them out of their land and language.
Mechanism: willingness and means.
Laudabiliter.
Motive: land and resources.
And: pride of conquering our savage race.
What won: property, real estate, a feather in the cap—a new civilization saved from
barbarism and godless graces.
What lost: a matter of perception.
 
"In the end the world will break your heart,"
Moynahan said, speaking of the things our people brought with them across oceans.
 
Táim ceart go leor.
 
Noted.
 
Still:
 
"Hunger was good discipline," another said, quoting the gentleman from Illinois.

"At least that if no more,"
Spoken through her eyes.
 
And for his, the near-blind Irishman spoke the long dead language—now graven in the language of the outlaw—with the skill and confidence 
of sawdust falling gently
and gently falling
upon the floor 
of the woodshed.