At Glendalough Ireland

1 December 2013

What is this obsession to tourist the dead?
I can’t understand if it is to prove
A history of belonging
Or a pride of invasion.

The rapunzel tours have failed
To pierce the blue velvet of sky
The graveyard is trampled by spectators
Only the river reminisces a monastic past.

So many languages are spoken here
The languages have arrived by bus
But there is no cohesion
The tourist culture as dead as the graves.

How I long for my people
The laughter shared in familiar
The smell of the campfire
Our eternal life.

Do not bury me and weight my soul with stone
Burn my body on the campfire
Scatter my ashes along the river
An unmarked grave for peace.

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