Ignorant, in the sense she ate monotonous food and thought the world was flat, and pagan, in the sense she knew the things that moved all night were neither dogs or cats but hobgoblin and darkfaced men she nevertheless had fierce pride. But sentenced in the end to eat thin diminishing porridge in a stone-cold kitchen she clenched her brittle hands around a world she could not understand. I loved her from the day she died. She was a summer dance at the crossroads. She was a cardgame where a nose was broken. She was a song that nobody sings. She was a house ransacked by soldiers. She was a language seldom spoken. She was a child's purse, full of useless things. –"Death of an Irishwoman" by Michael Hartnett

[ed: this poem has not much to do with the musical piece, i was just reading it around the same time.]