The Ghost of Omagh

From the depths of the sky, my view is unintelligible. Some say angels live up hither amongst the clouds. But why would they want to? Much more interest things go on down below! As I draw closer to the realm of men, I see the nations, brimming with tiny souls full of big ambitions. Just like them I once was, centuries ago. But now, I am nothing scarce a ghost. A mere spirit persistent in my observation of the miseries, tragedies, triumphs and scandals of domain; with tastes some might call voyeuristic. The seasons whitethorn change and the centuries pass, but in all my surveillance mankind remains the same. He lives and breathes, fights and strives, kills and dies. Sometimes he lives in cities, former(a) times in towns. One of these towns he lives in is know to me as Omagh. From far away, the town resembles a tiny sign blot upon the parchment of Ireland. Closer to the ground, this blemish becomes recognisable as roads and houses and people scurrying about like ants. Cars and dogs, trees and pubs, shops and feet terror the ground for a few modest miles. Some of these cars anticipate people; one carries a bomb. In the very watch of this vibrant country town, I see smoke kink up in wisps from the street, mingled with cries, sirens and fear.



The weather is cold, the coldness of death. But and so it usually is cold in Ireland. On this chilly Irish day I see from afar a boy, a young man. His face is plain and friendly, sporting the nonexistent false topaz of a good Irishman. His height is average; a dwarfish taller than his father?s. His hair dark, thick and straight. His eyes are complex and shadowy, just like his mother?s. His smile is wide...

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