The mist gently caressed the hilltops,
like roving hands on a lovers breasts.

The river sang to the pipers tune,
from the morn until the noon.

New builds stood alongside old,
relinquishing not,
lest their luck did not hold.

Many a shade of green stood boldly,
on horizons of stories unfolding.

The boat swayed gently on the loch,
to yeats poems of faires
and children lost.

His loves lament hung in the air,
as if it was his silent prayer.

Oh Ireland with all your mysteries
and beautiful tunes.
Your stories of fairies and leprechaun's,
I will for sure visit you again.

For the lure of greens
and songs and prayers
will linger for many a long year.