God knows my path through these,
these endless woods and shapes of foxes,
thieving foxes with their tales and eyes aflame,
these shapes of fire and the whispered shout
of a woman's voice that reaches out
to push me far from her.
By the light of fiery tails and by the faith of hope in love,
I spit into the dust and wipe my eyes with grime
to prove to us that I am truly blind.
All my movements cast the most fantastic shadows,
just like this helpless, happy tearstain that you touch and hold and read.
If only you but knew what you were drinking,
you would not be, O! so thirsty. And I-
well, I would still the tap to cut the flowing draught
and fall asleep amidst these lovely foxes, lulled to heartless passion
by the sound insistent of the echo of the love I knew to be.
But you will not, you know, and nor for this will I.
Somewhere through these God-damned woods,
there is a swell of low grass that goes on forever
to the edge of the peaceful, roaring sea that never ends.
On a rise above this hill there is a house
built with the callus
and the blood of Irish hands
to house a green and tender soul
whose heart can heal and gentle bloodless limbs
and fill the whole of eyes that seen too much.
I pray that I will see her face, which I have never known,
and that she'll speak a language that I cannot understand
so that I must fall silent,
watch her lips and hold her hair
and sit with her and listen.
I pray that this will be there, and that someday she'll cry,
for all the crying I have forced away,
when I am old, and tired straighten up at last my hands in joy to grasp
the sea-swelled ropes of my dying form
and face the wind and roar with happy rage and cause my final storm.