Persecution, says Bloom, all the history
of the world is full of it. Perpetuating
national hatred among nations.

What is your nation, if I may ask,
says the citizen. Ireland, says Bloom,
I was born here. The citizen said nothing
only cleared the spit of his gullet.

On Bishopgate Street a child rides
nervously on his new bike, his hijab
covered mother trailing behind. Walking
by the Joe Dolan [life-size] statue a girl
reads from a letter to her mother, hesitating
over each word: ‘…the appointment must be
confirmed before the date otherwise…’
The mother asks something in Polish,
the girl repeats more confidently.

These mosaics of St Patrick and St Anna
were commissioned by the Bishop of Meath,
designed and executed in the Marian Year
by Boris Anrep, muse of Akhmatova.

A nation, says Bloom, is the same people
living in the same place. By God, then,
says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation
for I’m living in the same place for the past five
years. Bloom says, trying to muck out of it:
Or also living in different places.