Easter Time Again

Dark and grey and the bank is on the telephone, eyes think of tears, and meaning has reclined from the day, and then, waiting for that precise moment, where care meets with care and the abandonment of the anxious time, and looking within for changes, searching for betterment for within and without, outside of the dream of the sleeping day, and seeking to be at ease in the present moment, and the changes that it necessarily must bring, and losing the future and the past, or fusing them in a sane way with the moment, and it is Easter time and the heart and mind return to almost a century ago in the persecuted city, of the heroes of justice, giving their all for the future lives of generations to come, for no present reward. I give you Pearse and Connolly and Ceannt and Clarke and Plunkett and McDiarmuid and McDonagh, I don't feel the need to try to remember them at each Easter time, it is almost as if they remind me to remember them, and who I am and how lesser I am than them, and the brave men and women who followed them, let them never be forgotten nor their esteem lessened.