Street lamp light is fading now, the sun begins to rise,
And Armoured police, like beetles creep, as factory whistles blow,
Workers scurry to the mill, another day begun,
In Belfast, August '69, midst terror of the gun.

Rows of red bricked houses, soulless, charred and burned,
Stand face to face and back to back, there's no lace curtains now,
An echo from the distant past, impervious to pain,
Cement and bricks and human skill will raise them up again.

From my flat above the streets I stare, I curse my newfound home
No human skill will raise my love, to bloom into a man
Shot by cowards in his bed at the tender age of nine
"Cry murder! My child Patrick's dead in Belfast '69.".