Desmond Egan & Diarmuid Johnson, poetry and Irish music.

Ontem parte da noite foi de poesia e música irlandesa tocada a flauta. Numa sala intimista com cerca de 80 pessoas ouviu-se o próprio autor a declamar os seus poemas e um tocador de flauta. Pelo meio ouviu-se finlandês e este poema que ficou cá dentro.

Peace

Just to go for a walk out the road
Just that
under the deep trees
which whisper of peace

To break the bread of words
with someone passing

Just that
four of us round a pram
and baby fingers asleep

Just to join the harmony
the fields the blue
everyday hills
the puddles of daylight and

you might hear a pheasant
echo through the woods

or plover may waver by
as the evening poises
with a blackbird
on its table of hedge

Just that

and here and there a gate
a bungalow's bright window
the smell of woodsmoke of lives

Just that

but Sweet Christ that
is more than most of mankind can afford
with the globe still plaited in its own
crown of thorns
too many starving eyes
too many ancient children
squatting among flies
too many stockpiles of fear
too many dog jails too many generals
too many under torture by the impotent
screaming into the air we breathe

too many dreams stuck in money jams
too many mountains of butter selfishness
too many poor drowning in the streets
too many shantytowns on the outskirts of life
too many of us not sure what we wantso that we try to feed a habit for everything
until the ego puppets the militaries

mirror our own warring face

too little peace.

Desmond Egan