Tuesday, January 25, 2011

its like that

Some days it moves in and out of focus.....
Fuzzy and blurred then sharp and crisp.

The Irish... and memory..

A few thousand years of oral history.. makes the memory strong no?

The blood runs true in horses, dogs and the Irish.

We don't need to see the green that cradled our race....

Its born in us..   we dream  dreams of places weve never seen..

A race of peculiar people... tribal and drawn to... what everyone else has forgotten..

We don't forget..we cant..

No more than we can stay in one place and not wonder whats round the bend..

Curious no?

We are who we are.. a race of poets, priests, warriors and shamans... sometimes all one and the same

Peat bogs..rolling hills and heather...

Words spoken.... songs sung... stories told.. rebellion and riot...

Submission to the unseen,.

Craving the presence greater than ourselves...

Water of life....

The liar... the cheat.. the thing that robs us.. the counterfit...

Ah..God we loose our way...trying to find you....

Forgive us...

We'll tell you a story and make you laugh...

We are what we are.... and we remember...

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