Subjugation

Always dying, how rituals and

Blood pacts - the heinous sort of

Covenants - did when their God came and cast them

Down until there was nothing but faded memories of gods and myths.

Each

Faerie folk became a fairytale. Brigid became a saint, no longer the

Goddess of the poetry my ancestors glorified. The

History of

Imbolc stripped from her glowing hands, no longer the celebration of

Joy, but rather the simple turning Earth on its axis. Now she’s from

Kildare and not as ancient as the Tuatha De Danann.

Listen as Gaeilge no longer drips like honey from the tongues of

Modern folk, the sort with little knowledge of the roots twirling under their

New strip-malls and detached dwellings. They can’t look

Over the wall England has built, preventing them from discovering the

Past and the injustices that ring through family trees.

Queerly enough, there was no famine, only the

Reaping of

Souls because the British wanted to

Take and take and take

Until there was no more for the people to live. The

Vexed hearts of thousands who rest in the Delightful Plane

Who will never see their history handed to the youth. How the old yearn for

Xanthic sunsets over juniper fields. “But what can

You do?” They ask,

Zipping up their synthetic jackets for office work. What can you do? By gods, fight for yourself.