Kyussian hills, unmarked landscape   
I know how small you can feel   
on an island once roamed by Celtic giants. Only History's bones are   
too strong to fracture its creators, black ink like shadows   
on a white page, fading with the night -   

and they speak a language   
that has forced them to kill   
and you do not comprehend.   
If I could translate   
believe me, in me, I would   
if only I was more than name.   

If I could hold the thread,   
write the map that guides   
you through labyrinthine daze -   

to learn from Joyceian flight,   
and to keep your wings intact,   
you too could be here, home,   
can you believe in dreams?   

But then again   
where is home when your heart is lost   
and it, like yourself,   
forgets to leave a forwarding address?