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deirdre of the sorrows
by Peter Humphreys

on the mourning
of her trial
she walked on
willow winding
banks as crows
skit scattered
in the morning
dawn black flakes
of love letters
burned upon the
open fire and
as her foot
slipped slightly
down the gray green
clay of Éireann
the trunk split
its ancient length
and rendered forth
its ancient strength
her soul's return

I am the daughter
of an ancient race
whose spirit knows
of no disgrace and
flows through fields
and factories
if you for a moment spare
raise up your head and
westward stare to where
my folk departed behind
your back without a
track the gleaming rise
of Erin's eye will fill
your heart with wonder
as rain on rain washes
away the stain of almost
forgotten plunder

I am those fields
I am the bog
I am the ancient
withered log
whose heart is
splintered sunder
I am the red haired
speckled dawn
I am the black haired
ancient morn
I am the mist


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