Above cushioned wall seats,
Where locals sit
With dogs at their feet,
Hang photos of footballers
Smiling still, ruffled hair,
From a near-forgotten win.
A proud farmer stands
Beside his blue ribbon boar;
Horses are tethered to wagons
Muddied,
Soldiers grinning with
The Republic's grimmace of war.
Outside, cobbled streets
Lead to stone bridges,
Walls and houses in this land
Of stone.
Above the shade of umbrella trees
The wind wraps turret heights.
Black, white and fading greys
Are dusted in walnut frames.
Nine o'clock sounds
And pictures shake
With laughter;
The click of dominoes,
And clink of pints
In the pub life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem