the importance you attach.

My star upon that billowing azure

was one of celtic twilight, myth

I loved all twelve together, but

just one by which I lived.

Amongst the others

my golden star gleamed,

boasted culture, tradition, history:

my home, an emerald dream.

I would return to it one day, till then

I vowed to write it from abroad, like Joyce,

to be my Ireland’s consciousness
the sean-bhean bhocht's own voice.

To whom should I complain

that I imagined it a different place?

My Wilde-heart dreamt a dreamer’s dream,

more than a land could ideate.

I should have known its absence

and stayed away from truth

and known amongst the high of mind

it rarely has a use.

Neon swallows culture,

last night belches this on streets,

the wrapping’s flown into the wind

this city-sacked completes

But I’ll get out as soon as I can fly

and ignore these next four years,

forget my disillusionment 

and still be buried here.