Whose Fault Is It?

I see daisies near Ireland’s Western shore
Perhaps one for each starved soul
From the Great Famine, which was not so great
For those who starved.
And I ask why miracles should abound.
For raspberries, thistle, and buttercup?
And how can the soil and water nurture
Magellan’s Fuchsia and fields of clover
But not the land’s children?
And I realize I’m asking God
But not my fellow man who holds the keys
To solve such riddles.

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