The notes rose from the Irish flute and fiddle,
Each and every note alone,
Single and solitary among the crowd of others,
And rose into the middle air,
Rose to its perfect place,
And burst -
With a clean and awful clarity -
Burst and then dispersed,
Into some unknown time and less known space.
“Ireland”, I said, “must be a lonely place,
Or else must have a lot of lonely places.”
“Ireland”, she said, “has lots of lonely places…”
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