The Irish Goodbye

The village is a fiddle that has lost its fourth string
I hear Banshees shrieking and an angel that cannot sing
The hourglass is heavy, carrying beads of time
The lamb is like the clouds, idling in a dead night

The field is invaded by absentee company
I taste a breath of fresh air that is choking me
waiting for Jesus, with this unholy lamb
disregarding the fact that it might be a sham

Nighttime advances to a dawn that never comes
I feel the sand escaping, and there is no where to run
Waiting, waiting, waiting and there’s no music to soothe
over a poor man’s cold body that had nothing to lose

My fingers lose sensation trying to pick up the sand
Hourglass smashed, by a still unsuspecting hand
The solitude of the field invaded by apathy
as the townspeople question the comrade’s infidelity.

If there is music in the world, it might be found in the streets
As the villagers puzzle with what to do with the meat
Do not go pondering transcendence in a solitary pride
Or tonight too might be your last Irish goodbye