From the burning ashes of a Clonard Street is where I trace my own. Not fifty yards across the wall my blood runs blue as well. The red brick walls and darkened halls where secrets never met. For fear a neighbor lent his ear to something he'd regret.
To the sharpened steel and concrete wall that separate our minds. Where the language of indifference knows never to be kind. The towering church that rang its bells in a panicked cry for help. Drew boys and girls in fearless hordes, through the smell of burning felt.
Near fifty years of blood and tears, some said we'd never learn? To put the past behind us and embrace another world. But Belfast streets refuse to give its secrets of the past. With the unrelenting notion that the die's already cast. My truth is mine and yours is yours, no need for compromise. When a monopoly of victims can hide a thousand lies. When pain and years of suffering is just reserved for some. The ones we leave behind us will not escape the gun.

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Vol. Tom Williams
Civilians Murdered by Loyalists and British Forces During the Course of the Conflict, a War Memorial
Clonard Martyrs, a War Memorial
The People of the Greater Clonard, a War Memorial
Bobby Sands MP
Séamus Mac Roibín / Seamus Robinson
Michael O'Dwyer, Paddy Loughran, and Pat McBride, a War Memorial
Fall Road Carnegie Library / Leabharlann Carnegie na bhFál
Pat (Beág) McGeown
Máire Drumm

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