as if it was nothing special or notable;
and you spoke to me, and you told me something,
and you said… What exactly?
I remember wondering in a maze of vowels and consonants
I would never be able to replicate,
deconstructing and constructing them in my head,
trying to follow the stream of your coded consciousness.
And yet there was something familiar and intimate —
the shadow of my own catastrophe.
And you said… you asked me something,
hoping I wouldn’t answer yes or no.
“Is it clear?” Is it clear.
I was ready to open my heart and cry with you on the top of my lungs
but, unfortunately,
my tongue was numb and my throat was full of vowels and consonants
I would never be able to replicate.
Tá brón orm, labhraím Béarla — I’m sorry, I barely speak.
It would be wrong to recite tragedy in that sassy tone people use as if.
I said nothing. If I have no words, does that mean I have no language?
You smiled as if it was fine.
“Stay healthy, stay alive”.
“You too”. Fine.
But how should I live,
knowing Dublin is the Fort of Hurdles?
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