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One day we will visit Ireland, the land of my ancestors where they carve little figures of pigs out of a thing called connamara marble And where I climbed when I was eight, the castle ruins
Vagabond, humming- bird hearted fluttering to and fro sipping the sweetness ( often the bitterness) of this thing called life. Migratory Migrant like a Monarch wafting with
Childless, the lineage ends with me- poet, my only legacy- mere words. And the older I've become the more my ancestry- the tracing of my roots holds a fascination
I look at your tombstone And wonder if you Can hear your grandchild, Who you barely knew?
My blood is a map that i cannot read. My skin a story in languages that overlap. My hair a crown to civilizations lost. A sad thing it is not to know where you come from.
I’m from sunlight shining, Birds singing in early afternoon. The fortress beneath sheltering pine trees, Narrow paths I’ve walked a thousand times.
As I look in the mirror and smile at my face I can't help but wonder where I got these traits Who was the one to give me my skin? Who gave me the nose that breathes in? What was your name?