Thinking of Yeats, " The Troubles," Ireland, and The World.

Wreathed in pipesmoke, caps jauntily aslant village men of Bogside gather inside a thatched- roof pub their talk punctuates the air with politics, the weather and animals- sheep, dogs, or swine and a thick brogue resonates as they drown their pints while at home ruddy wives knit heavy woolens as protection against the moor's damp chill; they gossip, brew tea and tend to children as women often will... And these people have already lived their troubles, ( had more than their share) thus, thoughts turn to the future, to better times while the world over others live out their troubles- in Gaza and Aleppo, Tegucigalpa, Ciudad Juárez... And I wonder, are we all like Yeat's " Pilgrim souls?" seekers and wanderers searchers after our own truths- a bit of happiness and peace a way to forget " troubles" as we dance a jig- ( or a cumbia) and we drown our pints wanting to silence- this nonending violence. pub