MALADY

[deilf]

I believed
I healed myself of you
completely

the exiguity of your
peat-bogs,
all over everything - including
mountains,

is endless
(one can not hide from it)
(one can not get rid of it)
the greyness of your sky
your houses
and cars

the apples
brought from South America
or New Zealand
(just the neighbour’s garden!)
if one is fortunate -
from France

the potatoes -
your eternal food -
as tasteless as those from
any McDonald’s
(can it be also
outland?)

dozens of foreign
languages and dialects
on your towns’ streets
and not a single word
(but for the voiceless letters
of signs)
not a sound
in Gaelic

those scents
that fairy landscapes
promised to one’s nose
that can not be felt
because of year-round
dumpness

those drinking and
patriotic songs
that are sung only
for the tourists of overseas

the hundreds of shops
packed with
shamrocks
(they can not
be found
on real hills)
leprechauns
tricoloured flags
tin-whistles out of tune
little harps
and saint patricks

Guinness
is the one and only
Irish beer
one finds
in your pubs

the fields of ancient battles,
the hills of heroes
behind the barbed wire
of private property,
the woods remained
in annals only

those countless white cottages
of wealthy foreigners
instead of former
inaffected landscapes,
that mass of coming strangers
growing day and night -
they could not care less
of you,
however,
most of your own children
couldn’t either -

I thought that all this
would make the perfect cure
the healing balm
the beneficial burning
for my old wound

But I was wrong
this malady
got deeper
to my flesh
my soul
my destiny

that calmness I supposed
to be recovery
(where was that awe,
that I felt before
each time
I heard your name?)
turned into illusion -
nothing more

that open wound
incarnated
and left debris
under my skin

The pain now is
much softer
its cause is not
so evident -
I can confuse it with
rheumatism or migraine
with over-eating
or
the influence of weather

but sometimes
I just realize
that I
can be

past cure…