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Iireland_157_bg_061802mages from my memory: Ireland in exile

It was in the spring of my life when a gentle rain danced across my face,

Glistening drops of sparkling moisture caresses the tautness of my cheekbones,

Dew bathed my eyelashes and brows, until a fire-lit slice of sun jumped ballet-like across the clearing,

Each leaf opened its veined hand exposing a shimmering crystal-a diamond laser droplet, suddenly a vapor.

Life uncaringly drove the steed of day into the threadlike clouds of the disappearing mists.

Ireland and its children hauntingly silent, tip-toed like phantoms across the peat-bogs into history

- James Moore