 |
| Margarita Engle |
When songs were alive
they needed no mouths
to send them flying.
Melodies grew
their own wings.
Rhythms knew
how to leap.
The lost tribe
of lyrics
rose without effort
seeking its own form
of peace.
CUIMHNE
Nuair ba bheo do na hamhráin
ní raibh gá acu le béalaibh
a sheolfadh chun siúil iad
Phéac a gcuid sciathán féin
as na foinn.
Thuig na rithimí
conas léim as a gcraiceann.
Tháinig treibh chaillte
na liricí chun cinn
gan dua
foirm dá cuid féin á lorg aici
foirm na síochána