Ireland
Where did that madness come from,
that irrational hysteria of subnormality,
that always coloured Ireland's history with blood
and dreadfully exaggerated tragedies,
which more often than not turned Ireland
to an isle of widows dressed in black and crying,
going on in endless sorrow over senseless sons forever,
while the witless hooligans just keep on sacrificing
lives and families and not just themselves
but innocents in countless numbers above all?
Was it that fatal Irish whisky lethally combined
with catholic fanaticism and superstition,
or that harsh Atlantic climate with incessant rains
three hundred days a year at least,
that always drove the Irish down the drain,
out of their minds and into obligatory alcoholism?
I cannot say. All I can do is cry with all those widows,
sonless mothers, families that lost their fathers
and their brothers and their children
for no good at all, as if the lunacy of violence
was reason in itself for any self-destruction.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2007-09-18 at 10:36
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Christian Lanciai |
ken d williams |