Made in Dublin: from Dublin to the Domen

I am here again.

At the home I was born to, not the home where I live.

And those of us, who live away, return at times.

A magician on the hillside shows me a trick with a rabbit.

And all I see are the smoke and mirrors, and a man behind a curtain, with a loud speaker.

It’s a shame.

Who minds about now, or then, or after.

When only the clean hill air, makes us well again, makes thoughts sleep again, makes worries bow and leave the stage.

All for this and every time.

When the clouds look down, and the Valley of the Wild Horse smiles.

All is OK and all is well.

We are home.