I came over the green hills, with brown eyes
In the morning.
I came with a song on my lips
From the western lands.
I came complaining from dim parlours
And a fish-moustache, and a cursing hallway
Filled with old wallpaper and swearwords
In the pub.
I came with eyes of brown, like blown, rich-blooming fields
In which the sun still shone.
I wandered, my hair brown too, and ample,
Like Cuchuillain's in the morning.
Memories of hallways where we struggled and wept.
Disappointed, embittered, tousle-headed,
Full of sorrow in sods of fields. Ah this or that
Commodity, crop, or coin.
What good is that? What use
This looming earth?
Evil-teethed, we loomed in yards, unshaven,
Avoiding zealots of the lord.
Rat-infested townhouses in Donegal, burst water-pipes,
Turds in the drainage, courtyards full of refuse and must.
So we stayed indoors and prayed.
The room, high up, and dark,
As dark as rosary beads.
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