Mac Lir's Gita

“Poor Bran, in the sunlight sailing

I see you toil through the hard sea airs,

by the salt winds- clipped,

in a whirlwind wailing

hurled and grasped

on the ocean snares

***

Dulled by the roar,

and with blasted eye -

dreading without, madness inside,

confined, no thought,

to skylike soar,

but life’s pulse spilling

on the ceaseless tide.

***

See you not as I see, man?

-seeing your world; real-as-unreal,

This heaving mortal ocean, Bran?;

just vast unbound

beneath my wheel”