No encarte de 'Songs Of Innocence', Bono conta sobre "Raised By Wolves": "17 de maio de 1974. 3 carros bombas estavam sincronizados para detonarem ao mesmo tempo, destruindo o centro da cidade de Dublin ...
O meu velho amigo Andy Rowen (irmão de Guggi) ficou preso com seu pai na van, e seu pai saiu e correu para ajudar a salvar as vítimas espalhadas como lixo nas ruas ... A cena nunca saiu da cabeça dele, tomava muitos analgésicos para lidar com aquilo".
Para escrever a canção à partir do ponto de vista de Andy, Bono telefonou para ele: "Liguei para pedir sua permissão para escrever sua história em "Raised By Wolves". Eu não falava com ele há anos. Ele disse: 'Sim, cara. Espere.' Então ele saiu e voltou com um pedaço do carro daquele dia. Ele tem carregado isso para cada local em que ele viveu desde aquele tempo – incluindo quando ele morou nas ruas por um tempo quando ele era um sem-teto viciado. Ele sempre pegou pedaços dos estilhaços, que na verdade é evidência forense".
Hoje, no aniversário da data, o irmão mais novo de Andy e Guggi, Peter (das capas de 'Boy' e 'War') postou nas suas redes sociais uma foto do estilhaço que seu irmão guarda, e mostrou um poema escrito por Andy sobre os atentados:
Andy Rowen
ONE LONG LOST DAY
Uma testemunha ocular dos atentados de Dublin em 17 de maio de 1974, uma visão da Parnell Street através dos olhos de um menino de onze anos e meio de idade.
The day that dawned that long lost May
In every sense and every way
Was just like any Summer day.
The sun had risen bright and fair
And life was sweet, devoid of care;
Great hope and promise filled the air.
No foreign land or distant clime
Was more delightful, more sublime
Than Dublin in the Summertime.
The midday hour had come and gone
And still the sun in splendour shone
And still the day rolled sweetly on,
And still the day was bathed in grace
As time now moved with greater pace
To meet the evening's warm embrace.
The city quickened with the flow
Of Friday traffic, row on row,
And shoppers shuffling to and fro,
And pitched above the city's noise
Were heard the youthful cries and hois
Of title-yodelling paper boys:
'Herald or Press'
The weekend, now an hour away
Was adding fever to the fray
As twilight poised to close the day.
Nothing stood out that would imply
A murderous hand had drawn nigh
And innocents were going to die,
No signal bell or sounding gong
Rang out to warn the hapless throng
That life for some would not be long;
That death would rear its ugly head
And paint the town of Dublin red
With blood too innocent to shed.
As Clery's jewel-in-the-crown
Pronounced the hour to Dublin Town
Another clock was counting down;
A twisted clock whose cogs ran fast
As precious seconds hurtled past,
Each minute shorter than the last;
A fell device with heinous aim,
Designed to mangle, mar and maim
With dreams to shatter, lives to claim.
Then, when the hour of grace had passed
The hidden timepiece ticked its last
And triggered a tremendous blast!
Parnell Street shook with seismic sound
As brickwork tumbled to the ground
And debris hurled for blocks around,
And burning embers filled the sky,
And jagged shards of glass let fly
As twisted shrapnel whistled by.
Whole facades vanished in a flash,
And every tumble, every crash
Imbued the air with smoke and ash.
Some ran for cover, screaming loud,
Some stumbled, shaken, through the crowd,
Some sank beneath the smokey shroud;
They never the deafening thud,
And sadly perished where they stood
As Dublin's gutters ran with blood.
Some reeled beneath the sickening strain
Of loss and sorrow, grief and pain
As men lay wounded, women slain.
A father stoutly stood, amazed;
His schoolboy son unhurt but dazed
As round about them wreckage blazed.
The fair-haired lad, not twelve years old,
Had watched the tragic scene unfold
In tears, and could not be consoled.
Against his will he stood his ground,
Suspended, fixed, and terror-bound
By every harrowing sight and sound.
The father moved with fitting speed
To minister in word and deed
And comfort those in greater need.
One elder who could not accept
The horror that before him swept
Fell to his knees and prayed. And wept.
And gushing tears he couldn't hide
He tossed his hat and case aside
And loudly mourned for those that died.
One soul for whom he wept lay dead
With mortal wounding to his head,
So fresh a wound, it hadn't bled.
Another soul, another prayer:
A woman who was young and fair
Lay limbless in her underwear.
This bomb had randomly disposed
Of precious limbs and frippish clothes
With tactless, indiscriminate blows.
As stunned onlookers stood aghast,
An eerie silence sidled past,
And then unleashed a second blast!
This second bomb was primed to blow
As Talbot Street was in full flow
With homebound travellers on the go.
This bomb, as deadly as the first,
Exploded with a monstrous burst;
With lightening speed the crowd dispersed.
They ran a dozen different ways,
And in their panic-driven daze
The streets became a deadly maze,
For where to run, they did not know,
And terror dealt a further blow
As crowds converged in opposite flow.
Just then, in Leinster Street, nearby,
Another bomb blast ripped the sky
And paved the way for more to die.
By this, alarm bells far and wide
Were ringing loud as Gardaí tried
To close the town on every side.
They shut the streets and cleared the scene
From Parnell Square to Stephen's Green
To let the rescue work begin;
The race was on to extricate
The souls that lay in wounded state.
Alas, for some, it was too late.
In three short minutes all was lost;
The paths of life and death had crossed
And left poor souls to count the cost.
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