Poem below to explain question.
Please note it is a metaphor:
The True Keeper of Ireland's Garden
You see them,
Yet their eyes are closed,
Cold hearts, hands of stone,
Is it that they die alone?
Shall they all be buried-
Under Hells tombstone?
Yet the keeper tries to save them,
Who is she you ask?
Yet she can never reveal her true name,
Torn is her path.
In her dreams she sees visions,
But not of Luci-fer’s keep,
The monster she hears is not of beauty,
No number on the true beast.
So you ask where is hope,
The keeper simply sings,
Hope is not of objects,
Hope is not of things.
Some say the keeper of the garden is cruel,
She lets her garden die,
But you have not meet her,
So who are you to judge her lines?
What does it mean to be Irish?
What can save our hope?
Kindness is the answer,
A lence with a scope.
By Crazygirl
P.S- Hope ye are all enjoying the rain outside.
Thanks for any answers in relation to this question.
Please note it is a metaphor:
The True Keeper of Ireland's Garden
You see them,
Yet their eyes are closed,
Cold hearts, hands of stone,
Is it that they die alone?
Shall they all be buried-
Under Hells tombstone?
Yet the keeper tries to save them,
Who is she you ask?
Yet she can never reveal her true name,
Torn is her path.
In her dreams she sees visions,
But not of Luci-fer’s keep,
The monster she hears is not of beauty,
No number on the true beast.
So you ask where is hope,
The keeper simply sings,
Hope is not of objects,
Hope is not of things.
Some say the keeper of the garden is cruel,
She lets her garden die,
But you have not meet her,
So who are you to judge her lines?
What does it mean to be Irish?
What can save our hope?
Kindness is the answer,
A lence with a scope.
By Crazygirl
P.S- Hope ye are all enjoying the rain outside.
Thanks for any answers in relation to this question.