A large crowd had gathered on the streets of North Belfast throwing stones at the British army .

Some rubber bullets were fired
and I saw one of them hit an old woman in front of me .

Then from nowhere this young lad opened up with a hail of bullets from a submachine gun .

There was a return of fire and in the middle of the battle there was nowhere to run .

The sub machine gun was almost as big as the young lad who had emptied his magazine .

I looked at him and remembered the football team we played for,
before the troubles had been .

Then the next thing I knew he disappeared behind a cloak of people
and in through a door.

What happened to the boy with the ball at his feet ?
What ever doesn’t matter anymore ?

That door closed and he was gone,
as were the times we once knew in our peaceful Belfast city .

I can never bring that back
or change the history pages with its glory and pity .

I wish the door could open again
and he would return back to the street without a gun .

But the door been closed and behind it there hides the face of many an innocent one .

Behind that door and beyond that place I can only pray for a way back to peace again .

Then with no more bullets and bombs we can take to the streets and forget how things went insane .

By Paul McCann