Above me stand, worn from their ancient use, The King’s, the Bishop’s, and the Warrior’s house, Quiet as folds upon a grassy knoll: Stark-grey they stand. wall joined to ancient wall, Chapel, and Castle, and Cathedral.
It is not they are old, but stone by stone Into another lifetime they have grown, The life of memories an old man has: They dream upon what things have come to pass, And know that stones grow friendly with the grass.
The name has crumbled-cashel that has come from conqueror-challenging Castellum- Walls in a name ! No citadel is here, Now a fane the empty walls uprear Where green and greener grass spreads far and near.
Pinned on the fieldpark stand saplings stark, their boughs drawing the eye skywards to find, then, night has not come yet, sky is still green, edged in chrome, the bare branches outling unknown ebony letters and between above in sliced green the evening star glitters.
And a Bunch of tulips inside.
Weathered like a traveller so battered they are these sweaty envoys mumbling the lost lines of their message made flesh: their beauty launches- (through the slash
of the knife the knife that cut them through the hand that bought and washed the shop that sold them through unbreachable mesh of a cordon the heart’s startled cries and hands’ hand’s-off clutch)- their beauty launches the sizzling thunderbolt into water, into my eyes.
From Between , by Agnes Nemes Nagy, Trans Hugh Maxton. Publ. Corvina Press Budapest and Dedalus Press, Dublin.