On this Good Friday
I will wash and pray, live
as if it were my last earthly day.
Suffering pain, disillusionment
brought me through a wrenching
way of impaling addictions,
wastelands with uncensorable
lives shaped as mine
through stuporous lies.
In a wild-flowered meadow
years ago, I heard from above
my father say grow up;
I did not understand
how to embody the simplest words―
as I stood by my mother’s grave
on a grey-cold winter’s day,
IT did in me declare,
I am for Life, I am for the Work.
The rising denial came slow,
moved by the mountain of no,
its climate rotates the yes
into snow-blinding darkness,
through the crushing of anguish
appeared stillness, cries of despair
become a blessing opening the way,
through the vertical of healing
It is shown: you cannot do
It has always been so,
it is suicide that suicides you―realization
renders the melting, the allowing to go.
Traolach Mac Chu Mhara