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"

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.


Post a Comment


This content comes from a hidden element on this page.

The inline option preserves bound JavaScript events and changes, and it puts the content back where it came from when it is closed.

Click me, it will be preserved!