Off course from the frail music sought by the words.

And the path that always claims the journey,

In the pursuit of a more oblique rhythm,

Creating mostly its own geography,

The mind is an old crow

Who knows only to gather dead twigs,

Then take them back to its vacancy

Between the branches of a vacant tree

And entwine them around the emptiness

With silence and unfailing patience

Until what was fallen, withered and lost

Is now set to the fill with dreams as a nest.

From ‘ Conamara Blues ‘ – by John O’Donoghue

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