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I do not write of Ireland, Yeats,
nor do I seek the hidden truths.
No second Troy shall there be,
no new Jerusalems.

We must remember tender songs
less time leave us cold as stone,
dreamless and alone in this haughty stance
of independence.

Warriors all, though without guns,
poets daily shed their blood,
a contribution sure
as any politician’s.

And so, St. Valentine, today
we put our reasoning away and cede
to ancient candles’ flare.
Cupid calls and we are there.

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