On a lonely road they traveled,
Michael Collins and his friends.
Though the road led to
Cork City
He would never see its end.
For the I.R.A. was waiting
where they knew that he must pass.
O’Neil, an I.R.A. man,
T’was him who fired the fatal blast.
Kitty Kiernan made a widow
before she ever was a bride.
On an August day in Twenty two
Brave Michael Collins died.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem