An end has met this cursed campaign. Battle blackened every brook. The final fiann; I remain Clutching where the pikeman struck. I sense your spirit, my beloved. Let me see your face once more, Our rebel hearts were not enough, To ignore your pleading cór. The horde hath history harassed. Know their aoir unfair is wrong. Though mourning sets the mass aghast, I adore your sombre song. Your skin fíneálta, hair tintrí, Dying eyes make beauty swell, No woman fairer, I decree, Doth in all of Éire dwell. I know you wish to weep lament, And I know your customs strict. Your seanchas leaves me no resent, For we knew my line was mixed. Its good you cannot weep, leannán, At these haggard, heaving breaths. For with this loss, I have forgone Any claim to pitied death. No land of youth for me awaits Only Hades, cruel and raw. And you, a life you must create Gan mo ghlacadh is mo ghrá. Our clouds are not without gealán. As I fade, I feel your grip. As tighter ties this slow sealán, Grant a kiss on dying lip. And now I part with my regrets, And the failures I have massed. But I succumb with one success, Knowing your love was my last.
A Little Bit about the Poem
It's a shame that so many think that banshees scream. The truth is so much better. I wasn't confident enough to write in Irish just yet. Luckily, I was confident enough to use it to reinforce a few techniques at play, where English might have let me down. I will repair the image of the bean sí if it kills me!
This poem adapted an old Irish technique whereby lines one and three must end with two-syllable words, and lines two and four with one. I failed to note the name of this technique, and I'm regretting it now, as I can't seem to find it again. If anyone recognizes what I'm describing, please remind me of the name and correct me if I've adapted it incorrectly.
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