The Death of the Dream

The Death of the Dream.



Last night a phantom came forth to talk to me,
A big fella, from a land of mist and myth,
With blood on his lips, and a soft white froth,
A hole in his skull where the shot had lodged.


He sobbed as he spoke, wiping away dusty tears,
With a widows rag that was once a flag,
Whilst thumbing a rosary of redemption,
Stained with the blood of Drogheda and the Rising.


I have seen false dawns rise on streets of pain,
Where high hopes have fallen, as Pegasus fled,
Seen cannons of the Empire spit tyranny's seed,
As priests placed a crown on the head of death.


Betrayal is a kiss from a mouth of flowers,
Same as it was then and the same as now,
The rifle is a ballot box, your tick its trigger,
The referendum result, the fatal dumb dumb bullet.


Who would have thought it could come to this,
That it would be Judas who gave the kiss,
My most beloved disciple, for a pocket of silver,
To end the dream and the death of my wish.


He turned away then, his head hung low,
As a mourning flag wilts at half mast,
And walked out into the dark new dawn,
Past statues adorned with crowns of thorns.