You speak the tongue so perfectly, I swore you were a native the first time I met you. And I have met you oft since then, and always you are the same: you are Caitlin Ni hUallachain. Nil locht ar bith air: There is not a fault on it, as they say, and would say if they knew you. The language is an art form in your hands, but you are not the artist: no, you are the frame that frames the art, and as art will not hang without a frame, but will collapse upon itself, so that the frame becomes important as the art, and indeed, part of the art (so that many even choose their frame), so you are part of the art, and looking at you speaking one becomes enraptured, caught up in your beauty and the beauty of our tongue: you become the art itself. As you become us, become Caitlin Ni hUallachain, so you become art, and art becomes dead. www.geocities.com/eoindunford
Reason for writing:
A girl who stunned me with her Irish.
Birth sign: Aries
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Eoin Dunford.