Irish

not my language.

I speak as the tongues
of rich
pomegranates do.
I speak as
cold winds through
dead trees
twisting their branches
beneath
eternal
twilight.
I speak like honey
for the Queen,
too cold
too dark
too still.

Irish

Lita Medinger

Joined April 2009

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

Written for my final manuscript for a poetry class.

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