by Liam Canniffe

The lights have all gone out,
The candles are quenched,
But scent of power lingers on,
Beeswax in the upper halls,
Where the aristocrats dined
And spoke of many matters,
High and within their ambit,
Designs to keep the world
In its place and all things
As they should be, according
To the code set out in ages past.
Down below, the tallow, burning
Leaves a greasy smell on the sticky

But the night hides the change,
That will befall the Houses
Across the continent and beyond.
The morning will be like no other
Seen before, as that generation
Of man paid the outrageous price
Of the unquestionable right of kings
And the callow weakness of the
common man.

Reproduced with the kind permission of the author. This poem features in the collection No Memorials – The Forgotten Irish (2015) by Liam Canniffe.