Irish poetry
Notes

Ireland

(Land of poets and soldiers)

Please remain here, just in my eyes,
please, Irish green fields
and meadows: just stay in the deep green

of my inherited eyes.
The soldier sleeps his dream
while the ancient poet writes his song.

Sacred blood flowered in the fields
and in the Celtic land roses became orange,
filled the soul of every Irish man and woman

who cries and prays; and again cries and prays
though knowing always that it is useless,
and shall be, forever shall be.

But poetry will not die
while the meadows remain green,
the soldier will fight and die

while Ireland remains a slave,
an amusing and amazing song whispering
hidden celtic and gaelic mysteries,

break in tears, break in courage.
And in the meantime children are born,
in the meantime parents die,

in the meantime drums and uilleann pipes
do not stop and do not harm...
and in the Celtic Land the roses became orange

because Irish blood was whitewashed
in the mortgage of its sacred souls downfallen.
And a whisper is loudly heard, and it says:

Erin go brath...Erin go brath.


Exile of the blood

What is happening, Ireland,
that no-one heeds the cry,
our longing to be free?
The sense of pride has gone.

Where are the sons of Erin?
Where are the warriors
who fought with guns and songs
whose voices were forbidden?

There is a silence that is not quietness;
No pipes nor harps cry in the darkness,
but in the depths of the night
the old Celtic voice loudly says

Erin go brath. Perhaps that is enough,
perhaps that is enough, and
brave soldiers need no longer fight;
but did the ancient poets ever know

the meaning of the word enough?
Tell me Ireland - does it hurt?
Tell me now, please talk to me,
claim and cry that you are still alive,

tell me Erin that you are still alive,
and promise me that you will never die.
And I will promise you that I will write,
and live, heartbeat by heartbeat,

caring for a land I've never seen.



Rodolfo S. Morello Dillon
©2000

Rodolfo S. Morello Dillon is an Argentinian physician with Irish antecedents. He writes in Spanish, his favourite form being the sonnet. As he says himself,

I don t know why but my Irish roots are undoubtedley strong and I do feel a huge sensation of belonging to the green meadows; and the Celtic and Gaelic songs and customs are, in some way, familiar to me, in spite of the fact that I've never been in Ireland.


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