Knowing that time for truth comes through talk when all is said and done
come to the trinity of instinct and two figures rooted in a single mind
one an Irish poet one a homeless migrant
dwelling in the ear of any who will listen for beauty in a song.
Seperated together to be remembered and recorded in the corpus of a work imprinted in the hollows of the heart
shining from the watchpoints of the soul and lighting landscapes of expression buried deep as Cuchullain fighting waves of human forces warring over cattle in Connaught.
Let us uncover ancient rites in the migrant's Irish heart which the poet has composed on benches at the canal's bank after weaving in make believe with fact
forming thoughts to run in a channel of oral metrics reconnected with in stubborn defiance to those whose learning is a metaphor for darkness
its geography anchored to a synthetic sky in static glow casting ink black pools of sharp cold sunless flame severing blind the past
cutting sound lucid measure dead leaving it to shrug dumbly and look on as written words weight its tongue silent in poetry's eternal cycle of departure and return
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