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Ever Eire


In a year when nothing grew,
The sun took a sabbatical, few
The likes had heard of, cold fog
By day, gloomy shrouds to sog
Fields by night, a dark soup
From which impossible to recoup
The seeded promise deep within
A rotting bosom, the empty bin
Awaiting hope's barren largesse
In barns emptied by a bad cess
That only Mother Nature knew
If to last forever. As mildew,
(Nee peronosporaceae,
Odoriferous dank fungal panacea
For a malady know the potato,
Radish, string bean or tomato,
Pale apocalyptic death in view),
Spread its spores as if to imbue
A wasting desolation upon green
Galway and of her, such obscene
Memories make that man nor beast
Ever again should want to feast
Eyes on that name save in shame.
From her bosom no life came.

Agony, uniform as the rain before
It, came later, as more and more,
Hunger's pinch tightened harder,
Babies cried and died, a larder
Filled to nourish, none could cite
To forestall the reaper of night
Visitation, he grim, grotesque.
A bejeweled garden, picturesque,
Lovely emerald island in a sea,
Herself, acclaimed too blue to be
Of earth's poor palette, mortuary
To score upon score, became wary
A benevolent fate would bestow
New blessings, the land to flow
With the milk and honey paradise
Promises. One toss of the dice
Later, to herself true, fickle
Never, Fate, sheathing her sickle,
Divests cattle from heaven's hills
To every man and joyously spills
Her proverbial bounty, profusion
So multiplied to dispel illusion
Any to be more blessed than Eire,
Sweet land, should Fate burgeon with desire.


--H. Arlequin

 

 
 

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