Sunday, May 15, 2005

Some woman's yellow hair

Has maddened every mother's son

Niamh. How I yearn for Tir na n'Og. The breast. The shoulder. The fair shoulder. But I had to return to Ireland, and wear a thousand years. The myth of guilt was stronger than the myth of love. Are you still there, in Tir na n'Og, are you waiting?


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