Reflection On Refugee Crisis

Dear beloved friends and readers,
Just a few reflections on the terrible refugee crisis in Europe at the present. It very sad to see so many desperate people. From a Christian, or even from a purely humanist point of view these are our brothers and sisters; we can’t turn our eyes away from them. And there are lessons for us in Europe from the whole mess. Is the recent wave of refugees in Europe a case of “the Empire strikes back”, the one-time colonies, with their young people, revitalizing an ageing EU – isn’t that a good thing? Or is the whole thing a challenge to our failing faith in Europe. Is it a case of, as scripture says, if we don’t bear the fruits of faith, it will be handed over to others who will. Is that a more sobering message of the whole mess?.
       But isn’t this is above all a challenge to put humanity back before economics and its hard money values. It should make us reflect in Europe and our own country about where we are going, what world we are creating. Is it one of an increasing gap between the rich and the poor, at home, and in the world at large. Maybe the whole system is wrong, the whole world we have created in recent decades and our blind EU conformism, much of which is totally the opposite of our own inherited values and independent spirit. Have we sold our souls for money, forgetting all we fought for over hundreds of years?. Maybe the 1916 commemorations should make us do some soul-searching in this respect. I include a poem I wrote about this called “The Last Irish Romantic”. Maybe its a bit one-sided, but all satire is so, for exaggerated effect. Here it is:
The Last Irish Romantic

“Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone” – Yeats

Dublin streets throng with jostling shoppers.

Little else matters, but that endless walkers

Should become eager consumers. Ragged traveller

Children, once running free on our country roads,

Now beg by O’Connell’s statue, the Liberator,

Who no doubt cries over masses more chained now

By the austerity of new remote superstate Masters.

They don’t suffer under these harsh impositions,

Only our poor people, and what’s most precious

And fragile in our great land. Yeats said allow

An Irish soul long colonially oppressed; where’s

Our once proud, neutral, independent Ireland now?

Once it was respected everywhere on earth? Now

It pleases only supporters of EU superstate ideology.

How many dreams of our founding Fathers are sunk

By that state’s dictates. Revise the Constitution.

Dismantle our Irish soul, says its Shooneens. Why

Sell out what we fought hard for, through hundreds

Of years, in tears, says the last Irish Romantic!

Powerless, lest money be withdrawn, to rattle chains,

Merkel’s monkeys, we drown daily in seas of Valium.

Is our soul now a whore’s soul, EU bought and sold?

Change is vital but can be regressive too, lets show

Its progress, not cultural suicide. Saying we must

Link austerity to a cold cultural iconoclasticism,

Just excuses the bulls rampaging in our china shop,

Creating our Waste Land, says the last Irish Romantic.

But we must be satisfied as we trim our ten foot hedge

In blessed disburbia, and chant our litany to a new God

Of our making, crying out on bending knees to TV cues:

Blessed be his untouchable TD salary raisers,

His billionaire bailed-out bonus bankers

His ghost estate hoards of useless houses

His latest imported gun-killing crazes

His almighty supermarket price fixers

His bludgeoning addictive gambling casinos.

Holy be violent TV cops,

Manufactured new crops,

Ecstasy lolly pops,

The blessed Saint Cocaine,

The great Madonna Heroin.

The grace-filled battery hen.

The closely battened battery cow,

The high rise flats for me and you.

The service is over, as fog intensifies,

After all the forced fizzy imported beers,

We reel out into the mad murky night

Smelling of fake chips and false cheer,

And here in the polluted night air,

We say why should we care anymore?

The hard-voiced media and politicians

Have us totally in their control.

Here’s up them all, says the last Cork rebel!

For the soul soars nowhere, God’s too much trouble,

So our inherited spiritual core slowly goes out, and sighing

In vain, in the failed heart the accumulated years

Leave only a great emptiness on eternity’s shore.

Must we push the boat further and further away from

The cultural centers of our once unique greatness?

From the special small nation values that made us,

From key bases of a once glorious western civilization?

Must our financial, cultural, moral and spiritual losses

Grow higher and higher, to wreck us in soul and body,

To weigh us down in every way, even unto judgement day?

I choose rather, like many of our youth, to fly away,

If I’m not transported to some gulag first, or a forced to live

In a third-class foreign-culture aping, misshapen nation,

A silent, inarticulate godless clod, everyone the same

Eu shade of grey soulless hell. I’d rather die rather than that,

Or live, a hermit, in our proud original way, says the Last Irish romantic.

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