Comhroinn Fuaime

They argue beneath cathedral domes of light, beneath the polished flags and cameras’ stare— voices sharpened into silver knives that carve the air and call it care. In chambers lined with velvet red they plant their slogans like marching drums; they speak of borders, fear, and blame while counting polls and future sums. Outside, the morning cracks its knuckles. An average man turns off his alarm. The sky is gray, the rent is due, a child sleeps curled against his arm. He does not dine on gran