MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA XXXIX

The Green Bird
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Cauda de avião da Aer Lingus - Aeroporto de Lisboa
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It´s there every now and again. I only see part of its lifted tail and the green clover printed on it.
It’s ready to fly. The big green bird.
It calls to me. The huge ton weight bird sings its beautiful, powerful, melodic song, only I can hear.
It’s a song that speaks of endless green fields running through soft slopes and valleys.
A song that chants in female golden angel voices.
A song that echoes with the sound of harps and violins.
A song that whispers in the distance strong tap dancing and music.
A song that tingles in the laughter of people and cups being lifted for toasts, in old pubs from another century.
A song that runs through words where r’s are rolled softly and sentences end with a musical twist.
A song that dances in the small white waves called flocks of sheep, of its rough seas.
A song that whispers ancient stories of druids and fairies and celtic warriors and enchanted forests.
A song that tells us of a great famine and a great exodus to another land they called of the free.
A song that praises a stubborn, relentless people who never give up, never subdue to its powerful invader.
A song that lingers in the heart of everyone touched by it.
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I have heard this song almost all my life, ever since I knew those green fields ran in my blood.
And the big green bird sings.
It says:
One day you will walk through the green fields of the valleys of Sidh and you will hear your ancestors whispering in the echo of my song.
One day you will ride on my back and I will fly you to where your heart longs to be.
To the Land of Éire.
To Ireland.
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“I Am Of Ireland
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‘I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,’ cried she.
‘Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.’
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One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
That is a long way off,
And time runs on,’ he said,
‘And the night grows rough.’
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‘I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,’ cried she.
‘Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.’
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‘The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,’ cried he,
‘The trumpet and trombone,’
And cocked a malicious eye,
‘But time runs on, runs on.’
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I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,’ cried she.
“Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.’ “
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William Butler Yeats