That Irish Woman

the rain.....
rat tat tat...rat tat tat
on the roof.
the irish woman's
deep words
of resentment
'scoundrel', 'rascal'
seem to turn the sound
into notes of approval.
a deep
in me
trails the rain
striking the
high keys in my heart.
the stirring
echoes of the rain.
long overdue -
a new word for
such futile angst,
the pain that
accompanies it.
not the first time
similar words
run from
these souls
in my occasional brush
with the irish,
the fine people who
give us plenty of
literary luminaries.
these literary giants
who in their agony
for salvation,
spun words
to give us
a view of the
different shades
of emotions,
thoughts that
the loss of dignity
would rock
a human pyshce.
a shell painful
brush with sand
that eventually
turns out a
lustrous pearl.
those irish pearls
strewn all over the pages.
their words rock consciences.
a siesmic tremour
in the collective
mental world.
i remember my own.
they bought opiums
till their nation cracked.
i met another british woman
who complained to me
about 'the english people'.

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by john tiong chunghoo

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