Come to Tir na mBan, the fertile land,
Where women reign and rule the storm.
We'll feast and dance untill the morn'.
Here on the Isle of Women.

Grainne will welcome you with a gentle hand,
as fog rises from the ground.
You'll steal away into the night with hardly ever sound.
Here on the Isle of Women.

Etain shall teach you how to hunt,
beast and man alike.
Creeping and crawling through the brush untill the morning light.
Here on the Isle of Women.

Eight years, one month, eight days

Eight years, one month, eight days
after we met,
she called.

Eight years, four days
after we became lovers
she called on the phone.

Seven years, nine months, seven days
after our first fight
she called to improve her social skills

Seven years, eight months, seven days
after I had to go away for a while
she told me how alone she is

Seven years, seven months, seven days
since I came back,
bearing love and gifts
she told me of her losses

before me, there were trees

rocks and rain
and stars

with the passing of time
I have learned
to tie my days with the red thread
of sunrise
to dip my fingers in spring-cold water
of wisdom
to watch as warm wind visits
my window

outside my pane
a hundred smiles
are born from the strength
of just one vine

this life is
too brief a journey

I reveled on the fringe,
gathered my skirts...

I loved to love and hated
my love of the tainted love
that drowned out the sounds
of drowning men in the sea of
modernity. I scoffed at excess
and drew perpendicular lines in the
sand, announcing myself the prophet
of the ages, an oracle of poetry.