The Irish Flute

This Irish flute of solitude,
Has played me too long with it’s illusory jest;
And when I blow my heart out into it;
It’s timbre vacillates my timber breast

Atop this meadow hill I stand;
Hold the flute of solitude in my hand;
I’ll Pump my soul in the wooden pipe;
So that all may hear my loneliness’ gripe

No trite song shall I play today;
For the song must summon my lover of old;
To her I shall surrender my destiny;
For I am hers; to shape; to mould;

So I commence; thence; put all my compunction aside;
She’s calling me from Elysium and I must abide;
But guilty seas lie in between / and / I don’t think I can sail through;
I have no ship and I have no sail; the wind’s my enemy and I have no crew;

But I shall persist; command and insist
Her to spare me this pointless privation;
And to return from those frozen lands
And be the cause of my joy and elation;

And all the while, this wooden flute;
Rendering all the other voices mute,
Whispers gently to the gentler air,
"She's gone / she's gone; she's never coming back;
she's gone forever; despair; despair"



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