My heart it is not in the heartland
Nor is my soul at heavens gate
Just wander of pieces
Fate in reverend state


Stopped at the river to wash the love from hands
But in confusion I found the blood of the land
No winter of healing no burnt of soil or man
Just the ashes of dreamers saying they can

Covered my self in her green
Dragged eh branch of peace
Left the answers to living
In comfort and scene

Over the hills we travel
Under the cover of night
Into the spring of believing
Bird on wings takes flight

Ride in the back of seeing
Step forward all young men
Turned soil of your father
Return again the sin

For under death the brush of rabbit ands squirrel
Lives the deer of gentle and world

Eve in the garden with pitchfork and snake
Buried the devil
In his fire and lake

Stopped at the river to wash the love from hands
But in confusion I found the blood of the land
No winter of healing no burnt of soil or man
Just the ashes of dreamers saying they can

Drop of dew turns the face of the land
Irish stew on the clover so green
Nary a snake can be seen
Heaven I think not but it feels so good to dream

Author Notes
In 1845, a disease infected the potato crop all over Ireland. The potato being the main food source of the Irish, made this result into a horrific, deadly famine killing millions. Some of the Irish people fled from the infected land in search of a new and pure world. They sought refuge in America and Canada. The others who stayed true to their homeland faced a war of life that shattered many dreams and put fear into the hearts of the Irish people.