The critically wounded stag

by Ciarán Cork

 

How would you feel if your language wasn’t your language but

A plague?

A linguistic rat with gilded hair

Able to break your tongue            with a crimson crossed stare

The piper has joined a new dance it would seem

Into the nest, these rats                blossom              and teem

He looks around, entranced         by           eek eek eek

That soon he’s accustomed to this way that they speak, and

If only he knew that                        their tongue was not free

But with the clang of the rats, he just could not foresee

That his pipes would             rust        in the damp of the air

The once fabled piper, seemed not have a care

Still somehow,                  he struggles on                       to play his fabled tune

 

EEK EEK EEK!

They chant to his jarring song, laughing while he plays

With each salivary rasp, his face becomes the colour of his flag

Yet still, he fails to see it,                   the         critically                wounded                stag

 

The Lyres of Ur

by Ciarán Cork

 

We see how you discern us – with lapis eyes, thief

An ancient relic of time be-passed

You stare in awe, something of disbelief

Negate the right to rest, harassed

Though should you stop, make not a sound

And descry our ethereal choir of ten

To our way of life you are abound

Let our song beacon your argent boat far from the bullpen

To our amaranthine beauty, that sees no end

Ever and again concealed in an adorned boneyard

Amidst silver and gold, she played to mend

The heart of Shamash, with the exit of a bard

 

And if you too should seek to ink your own verse

I contest that you consider           your relic            a hearse