Poem: A Wandering Mongrel

Years in different places,
Hilly places, city places,
Places full of joy,
Places full of woe,
These places throughout my life,
In my dear Emerald Isle,
I do know.
Each place has stayed with me,
Each place has a left a mark,
I have become a wandering mongrel,
In the country of my birth,
Now there is no place I can call my own.
There is no place that belongs to me,
Each place I go,
I long for more,
Yet some say I am evil,
For half my blood is Roman,
Some say I am evil,
For I have family of Luther’s stock,
And even more say I am evil,
For I speak with the old Empire’s voice.
I am not evil,
I am myself,
And I am free,
I am those places,
And those places are me.

*I wrote this poem a few years ago. I wrote it as reflection of growing up in Ireland as someone who is half Roman Catholic and half Church of Ireland and all the conflict that can bring.

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