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Aine Gwaed Infanc

The crickets are playing a familiar tune tonight,

One I haven’t heard in many a year.

‘Tis not from their failure to play,

Only from my failure to hear.

‘Tis a melancholy song,

Rather sad, yet rather sweet,

Fills up my soul,

Makes me feel empty yet complete.

It reminds me of times long gone,

Times when my heart was broken,

Times of absolute bliss,

Times kept hallowed by words unspoken.

God has painted the sky to match their symphony:

Flames of scarlet, streaks of gold

Emblazoning the heavens

Like the standard colours of an army bold.

But the flanks of twilight overtakes them,

Dampening out the orange blaze

With a misty stillness

That covers the pond on which I gaze.

Moonlight softly caresses my skin as

Diana, triumphant, begins to rise,

Peeping over blackened pines,

Shedding holy light on my weary eyes.

In the great black void, the stars shine bright

Like the lonely fires of lost souls

Separated by a gulf of darkness

Left alone to tend their coals.

Far too long I’ve been blind to the beauty,

Failing to stop and smell the roses,

Forgetting the blissful return to Eden

That each eveningfall discloses.

Fall, 2016 Issue

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