Back in the old country, The history of me is long. Feelings of death and desolation Hang in abandoned homesteads, Tower houses, ringforts, and castles. At every turn, I come across all that’s left, Perhaps just a foundation Or roofless stone walls, Doomed habitations, Of lives that will never be remembered. Yet no depression accompanies, Here with quiet, kind hills all about. The loneliness in these vacated frames Feels hidden and safe. In their shells I build another, Which, like most of these, Will never be found.