Seanchas

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.

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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.