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Going Home to Mother: A poem on Ireland

The hills seemingly run their length of the Earth, and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I begin to run, I run so hard I start to feel it burning my thighs. But for all things, I wouldn't stop. I didn't want to, though it hurt. The grass on my feet, the freedom of the wind that carried the smells of life and magic on its sweet breath. I feel myself at one with what I always thought I was apart from. Oh, Mother of Life, Mother of everything sweet and beautiful, I am your son, please have me from such a horrid place and world. Take me from the human nature and let me be one with the Earth beneath me, and the air around me, and the fire that burns and blazes, and the water that rages and gives life. The wind has my soul, the land my body.

Mother, you have me as your kin and child as all we are! Beings of any stature, king or emperor, none who waste breath and life upon gold and appreciate not the beauty of the Mother shall know. Those who look upon the ground and watch the grass flow, the barley shake, the stones glisten, the brook babble, and Mother grow, shall know life and will know Mother.

Mother, I am your son! Have me as your loving child and I will be yours forever!

 

 

 

 

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