LXXII
féileacáin sa tóir
ar na bláthanna a chuirim chugat
táid glan as a meabhair
teannaigí bhur sciatháin
guígí ar a son i dtámhnéal cumhra
pursued by butterflies
all the flowers i send You
they are as maddened as i
fold your wings and pray for her
in a fragrant swoon