Whose? By Eavan Boland

Beautiful land the patriot said

and rinsed it with his blood. And the sun rose.

And the river burned. The earth leaned

towards him: Shadows grew long. Ran red.

Beautiful land I whispered. But the roads

stayed put. Stars froze over the suburb.

Shadows iced up. Nothing moved.

Except my hand across the page. And these words.

From “The Lost Land: Poems” by Eavan Boland

(W.W. Norton: 68 pp., $21)