Raibh saol macánta

Bhí cónaí orainn, throid muid. Grá againn.

Ní raibh sé éasca, ach ba linne é

Linne

Now, it's theirs

We speak their language

We had to, they said, or we'll be punished

And like an apex hunter's extinction, other things were lost

Our language was nearly gone, and with it, our traditions

So little remains

So little to salvage

We starved

We left

We lashed back, biting the hand that beat us

Independence at the cost of our tongues

Not only us, but countless others

Countless others who lost more

We saved our tongue from the brink as hundreds of others grieve theirs