written by: Eoghan Lyng
Awaiting more than a pint,
Sitting for life itself,
To greet and meet in failtiú,
Beside Irish folk
With words less Czech than French.
To sing of Athenry,
Whiling away the cries belied to the
Rugby guys whose tactics fall,
Before their eyes
Decides to right themselves live on television.
Furey brothers stare down the ware
As flared cares share their thoughts,
On a whimlite stair,
Welcome this cold stranger
From Malonstranske’s snow.
I sip my black and enlightened drink,
To think momentarily of home,
Standing stones enclose,
Of Fianna past, at last
Be free inside of me.
And the wind lays the chase,
With humbled grace
only an Irish bar can place,
From the severed weather
Back to this Emerald land.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Echoes the pathways that adorn Malonstranske.
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