Let Them Not Make Me A Stone

A City Built Upon Mud; A Culture Built Upon Profit; Free Speech Nipped In The Bud, The Minority Always Guilty. Why Should I Want To Go Back To You, Ireland, My Ireland?

I Am Not Yet Born; O Fill Me With Strength Against Those Who Would Freeze My Humanity, Would Dragoon Me Into A Lethal Automaton Would Make Me A Cog In A Machine, A Thing With One Face, A Thing

Time Was Away And Somewhere Else, There Were Two Glasses And Two Chairs And Two People With One Pulse.

I Am Not Yet Born; Forgive Me For The Sins That In Me The World Shall Commit, My Words When They Speak Me, My Thoughts When They Think Me, My Treason Engendered By Traitors Beyound Me, My Life When They Murder By Means Of My Hands, My Death When They Live Me.

You Know The Worst: Your Wills Are Fickle, Your Values Blurred, Your Hearts Impure And Your Past Life A Ruined Church-- But Let Your Poison Be Your Cure.