Al MacDonald

The Wake

I lay quiet in cracked case, ‘neath open window to the room;

Wood, old and worn, soft voice still warm, deep, dark and rich and finely tuned.

She comes to me. She lifts me up, and slips me tender ‘neath her chin.

Long fingers rest, caress my neck, then she begins

To draw through rosined bow, her song across my strings.

Low sorrowed notes pour, weeping, over memories being shared.

A loved one lost, is mourned aloft on ancient sweet and cheerless melancholy ayre.

Tha mi dorcha
Tha mi an sil
Tha mi a’goatach
Nuir gairm sibh moa inn
Th mi tursach bronach biocrach dorainn

I am darkest of nights, when tears fall like rain.
I am the wind that carries your name to the book of the lost.
Sorrowful burdens, I carry across.

Her song ends and then she lay me down again.

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