Mists of green and gold and myth

Oh land of happy wars and sad love songs, of failed uprisings promising freedom: I have drunk from your myth since birth, your wings – those ideals, blind faith – lifted me up, called me home and I answered, believed, held the dream up to the sun and let the light pierce it with rainbows, closed my eyes and willed the years and miles to crumble until I believed myself a part of the words proclaimed, the deeds celebrated.

Among ghosts, I trail my fingers over bullet-dimpled patterns, breathe the gold and green air of expectation, taste the dust and smoke, celebrate and mourn and sing and weep for a dream idealized (realized?).

But life is never so vibrant, never so symbolic, as a dream and with this one, though I wake from it sometimes, unintentionally (do not think on it too deeply lest its magic fade), I allow the taste of the memory to linger, to enshroud me and hold me in its thrall for as long as it will keep me.

In honour of the Easter Rising centenary and the dreams of this Irish descendant.
Opening phrase borrowed from Irish musician, Tommy Makem.

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