This is no country for the young. The old
sit atop their hill of granite and iron,
unmoved and unmoving, shouting down this
or that, wrong or right, advice or blame
while the young flounder in boiling seas,
burning trees and dying for peace or liberty.

I do not know this land barren. Badgers
wandering denless and foxes without pups
and bird crying, crying into the night.
It is well to sail, that once was an option;
so sweet the thoughts of abandoning shop
and expiring off the coast of Wexford.

So sail away my paltry friend and leave
us a carcass of home. Byzantium's
gold was always gilded and mosaics
are for bathroom walls. Pass on old man
if so you please, it is here and not there is our home.
Or so it can be, if only we’re let;
It’s from Byzantine dust we’ll build home.