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He quietly roared, his heart implored, down all the years of hate,
Refused to lose, but pinned his shoes, in hope’s half open gate.
A level voice, the sane man’s choice, between the bomb, and boredom,
Quiet and “dull”, but arms to pull, the gap that yawned before him.
His life then auctioned gladly, to the bidder who’d buy calm,
Through hatred’s fog, to hatred’s dog, he held an open palm.
Perhaps the laps he’s had to run, would kill a lesser man,
But John pressed on, when hope was gone, to end where he began.
His name and face, have been displaced, from ear and public gaze,
But Northern Ireland’s quietest roar, will be heard down all the days.
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