Nobody, Nobody can be sure they're always right. The ones who are fullest of themselves that way Are the emptiest vessels. - Seamus Heaney

This morning from a dewy motorway
I saw the new camp for the internees:
A bomb had left a crater of fresh clay
In the roadside, and over in the trees

Machine-gun posts defined a real stockade.
There was that white mist you get on a low ground
And it was deja-vu, some film made
Of Stalag 17, a bad dream with no sound.

Is there a life before death? That's chalked up
In Ballymurphy. Competence with pain,
Coherent miseries, a bite and sup:
we hug our little destiny again.
-Whatever You Say Say Nothing

Then a powerful demon, a prowler through the dark,
nursed a hard grievance.

I don't mean sound as decoration or elaboration, but the actual cadence that moves the thing along.