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  • Alex Ó Fearghail

Adieu, Your Majesty


Golden rings, rarest earth, cold silver eyes,

This weary crown and head, at morning’s start,

Your wicked soul, in mortal flesh disguise.


Upon that split tongue, which forged no warmth, lies -    As all men know - who trudge behind your cart,

Golden rings, rarest earth, cold silver eyes.


Above this last march, a murmuration flies,

On a canvas of clouds they draw their art;

Your wicked soul, in mortal flesh disguise.      

   

Flames clasp the kingly pyre; your ashes rise,

Sickly smoke -  acrid black, leaves these apart:

Golden rings, rarest earth, cold silver eyes.

Your embers paint a rapture on the skies,

Show these stars, plotted on the astral chart: Your wicked soul, in mortal flesh disguise.

The boatman, his back turned, deaf to your cries,

This fare too light for you, your heavy heart,

Golden rings, rarest earth, cold silver eyes, Your wicked soul, in mortal flesh disguise.


Alex Ó Fearghail

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