I sit at the gates of Dublin Castle,
In Chez Max, watching Spanish tourists
Take cloud-stained selfies with selfie sticks.
This is where British soldiers
Sharpened their bayonets: look at the wall,
You can still see the scars of imperialism
Fostered by an alien government – so far away,
So absurd now like my hearing, touched by sight,
Sifting through debris flushed down Dame Street.
The prophesied rain arrives, making people squint,
Filling every cobblestone divot with Irish puddles –
Dark and foreboding. I am my own martyr,
I sacrificed my life in order to maintain it.
The tour guide appears wrapped in a transparent
Plastic raincoat. Speaking in tongues, he calls
And dismisses ghosts from their sleep. Something
Grey and light as mist curls around my ankles,
Making a mockery of each fading moment.