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Chanter

i.m. Aine Ni Braonain, Eamonn Ceannt

​

You were the man on the train,

hurtling onward, your whistle sweet as a bird,

 

a maker of sounds untethered,

waning into the wild.

 

You were shadow and light rooted deep 

as a mountain, 

 

a scribe of fortune with secrets 

and longings full to the brim.

 

You were the man who walked

into your dreams, gave me five francs 

 

of silver and gold so I could walk

into mine. 

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