Irish Eyes

Within the
skull, tribal
marking scores
the brain. Cold
eyes fixed on
each night's count
of corpses
across their
god's divide
betray no
inner grace.

But Sundays,
most kneel or
crouch, bent for
sponge the week's
sinning with
wafer or
crumb, meta-
morphose mean
thoughts into
priceless guilt.


Click on Mise Éire mural for full screen image and translation