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the madrigal, volume i

helen jenks and tomás clancy


by tomás clancy

I remember the bay,

Pale were the glimmers that galloped on wavering crests 

that churned from the gloom of rumbling yonder.

Dissipating in a hollow froth on dull scree mounds

I was only there, in the bosom of my homestead. 

borned anew on the Barna shore 

I felt to be free, flimsy swaying in the swash. 

Burning and frigid, 

Trembling under foot tentatively marching to the maw

at that, most imprecise crucible 

a clattering edge of torrents scathing 

Swept me away in breathless cries, pulled up for release.

Saonta is the land 

Where the shore groans wild, Pitying the naïve.

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