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The air was silent and yet it rang
with sorrow and guilt,
The men who once were boys together,
will court the other’s ghost forever.
I hover above the water’s veneer,
below a sky, severe
with white and grey
the colour of glaring day
and the wild geese, that take flight across the bay.
Man of Muirthemne, do not your heart betray,
in exchange for adoration from the hearts of they
not to forget you or let your name be lost,
keep that love upon your soul, embossed.
It is early yet and I cloud your view,
as you gaze into the river’s depths in lieu,
of lamenting your heavy heart to the morning,
about the death of your son and his ring, which from now
will be forever adorning,
Man of Connaught, why did you believe,
that woman’s words, fashioned to deceive?
I was there that night, upon the fields I descended,
while you were duped and your vanity she attended.
She promised you land, jewels, a wealthy, esteemed wife,
her daughter, Findabair,
who has since taken her own life.
That woman-king, that covetous thing,
who has ravaged this province to the point of breaking!
The skin of horn is not made of iron, like the heart it tears
and calls out Liar!
To the one who rips and unravels the fabric,
of our souls, our worlds as we run from the fire,
of our lover’s embrace, the white-hot joy,
This morning will be the third, upon which the clash of
weapons will be heard.
You are both debilitated, sore, and humiliated
with the effort of attempting to bring on the anticipated,
when all will end,
emotion rendered dormant.
The fight mirrors the two of your strengths,
your love, your passions along with the lengths,
you both would go, to have one more noon,
beneath the sun upon the large plain, strewn,
with your playthings and your playmates,
but alas that time has flown like a dove,
It is too late,
It is not enough.