Free The Troubles by Unknown

out of their misshapen circle.
         Quinn was so proud he had remembered to put on the thick woolen fleece hand me down his brother had worn at his age. He agreed colloquially through blue tinged lips. “Yer right. It’s like brass monkey’s this morn.’’ The teenagers were all a little anxious to meet with Bobby Sands but were too proud to admit it. In this group the moment one exposed themselves as fearful or timid the other boys would use that same insecurity to inflict a barrage of wrath upon their target. This was well known to Quinn and so he picked his head up high and straightened his posture standing his tallest at five feet. He was going to address Bobby this morning by looking directly in his eyes and he promised he would never again stutter or appear bashful.
         Bobby Sands had won over Quinn’s admiration one evening when all the boys had been gathered in an abandoned shack, which was now primarily used for covert meeting by Irish Republic members or the growing by day, sympathizers. Bobby had walked right in, obliviously clumsy and perhaps too boisterously, to be welcomed by this group he held in such high esteem. The room had vibrated with static electricity as the stranger before Quinn orated his latest poem in his calm authoritative manner. 
         ‘’The stars of freedom light the skies. Uncrowned queens of yesteryear; They were born ‘mid shades of royal hue, from mystic wombs they did appear.
    Silver gem that pierce the dark. Heavenly virgins in disguise. That stir the heart with love and flame, And light great flames in all men’s eyes. Oh! Star of beauty in nightly hue, You have inspired bondsmen to kings, And lit the ways of despairing folk, From dreams to living things. In the seas of time you float serene, Oh! silver stars of nations born, And you draw a tear to free men’s eyes, Through dungeon bars forlorn. Oh! Star of Erin, queen of tears, Black clouds have beset thy birth, And your people die like morning stars, That your light may grace the earth. But this Celtic star will be born, And ne’er by mystic means, But by a nation sired in freedom’s light, And not in ancient dreams.’’
         While the dialogue was perhaps too evolved for Quinn’s mind to interpret, the emoting quality of Bobby’s soothing tone and his abject ability to captivate a room of such diverse intellectual ability ranging from the simplest of souls to men who truly comprehended the impact words could have, allowed Quinn to unite with his compatriots as Bobby Sands graciously basked in the positive reception.
         On this day’s meeting in the brisk breath of the morning mist, Bobby told them again to not take up arms but to help him publish some of his latest works while he and the remaining youth stood in the looming shadow of Alexander Coach Works shivering, fingers numb from the tedious exchange of paper leaflets. This had disappointed Quinn more that he was willing to admit to himself. He felt his violence like a liquid metal coursing through his veins at every mention of Protestant authority, as their condemnation of his birthright was a direct assault to his very being. What was so truly damning about being a Taggart? “Nothin’ at all,’’ Quinn remembered Alastar repeating, growing frustrated by the boy’s barrage of the repetitive line of questioning. “We believe in The Lord same as they do.” He had quietly tried to comfort his little brother’s squirming agitations. Alastar had failed to rationalize and clarify the complex situation for the then seven year old and over the years the anger grew and festered within the lad.
         Quinn had left Bobby Sands at Alexander’s Coach Works with the others as the group quarreled about the object of the mission. “That dipso does me head in,” the self-appointed leader of their motley crew barked, clearly frustrated they hadn’t been tasked with a vandalistic conquest.
         Quinn optimistically joined the