By Sophie Brennan
The world is always mistranslated young in this way -
Budding is in the night
for those who do cut the ice
Where the daylight unveils savage
so to make my translation, as hit by frostbite
but maybe it is too old, to tell, my tale.
Now my shadow is the shade, the night shade, the night’s jar.
My backwards self appears streets ahead
Frigidly, I walk backwards through locality unafraid -
husky, numb man jar.
One block topples due to frozen black desires inside,
my toppling brogues make reoccurring warming sounds
I want not to question; is this is a mistake?
I do not block out more truths, I already am four corners
The Irish field became distorted after I arrived
I dropped my hazy blocks that reoccurred,
all dusted with shavings of green swords -
Dark stillness is a distracting game even with only one definite end -
I struck a chisel through the field that once was
Ants set out crawling upwards -
Iron is irresistible in glory,
the herd froze as did the blocks
I was the eye in the sky that only focused on the gorilla
My brogues never did beat!
The silent nighthawk, no, no –
Sophie Brennan is a first year English student at Trinity College Dublin.