Like Irish Is The Dream Of Life

I make myself hungry for you.
I go to sleep in hunger
(like bread from the stone ovens
in that village by the sea).

They sprinkle salt in the morning under
red cedar beams upon the daily bread.

I hunger so you can dream.
And you wake at night when the oak tree rustles.

Have I hungered so we can dream?

Do you ride beneath the crystal sun
past barley fields and peatland turf?

Did an ancient giant tell our story and lay it at
the base of mortals?

What land becomes our home?
The unification of wayward bodies?

What land makes the succulent touch of lips
the anthem of its highest army?

So what land is in the sky?
What lay within our bones?
Do a people from the sky live within our bones?

What do these codes compose with particle,
energy, emptiness and time?

What show is on the telly when you walk
through the door?
And how old are these days that unfold
over and over?


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