irish rose a poem by luis miguel poetry love

Irish Rose

On brightest field of sapphire stardust,
I found an Irish Rose long forgotten.

And she was pale and frail and broken.

But she was all the more beautiful
For her paleness,
The way she glowed against the gaudy
Woodland flora.
Like a winter moon—so cold to the touch.

And she was all the more beautiful
For her frailness,
The way her wiry, thin stem fit so
Completely between my hands.
The way her petals would burst apart
At the slightest tug of my fingers.

And she was all the more beautiful
For her brokenness.
Every bruise I uncovered
Made me love her more.
Every scar was a magnificent
Paint stroke.

Even in the company of the
Wild flowers and forest sprites,
She was alone.

So I plucked her up.
I put her in my breast
And sang to her.

I sang into her heart.
I sang the songs that color
Her blood emerald.

Songs of a thousand famines,
A thousand ill-fated lovers,
A thousand revolutions destined to fail.

Songs of hope,
Songs of redemption,
Songs of freedom,

Punctuated by the ancient drone
Of uillean pipes at dawn,
The youthful dance of
Tin whistle and bodhrán.

They were the age-old songs
Of her ancestors.
And when she spoke, I could
Hear in her voice the stories
And melodies of a people
Who made every gain at
The cost of a thousand losses;

Stories and melodies re-enacted 
In her living poetry—in the way 
Her sadness lingered even as she
Reached the heights of jubilation.

When I held her close,
Our love became a sacred garden
Of roaring fire, dotted with the
Tender rosebuds of dreams
At long last fulfilled—
But whether hers or mine,
I never knew.

And then she was gone.
I lost her just as suddenly 
As I found her—without so much
As a silhouette to remember her by.

I realize now that I was
Always meant to lose her,
Just as she was always meant
To be free.

As I think back over it all,
I’ve found it’s easy to resent the rain.
Because one day, you discover
There never was a pot of gold
At the end of the rainbow—
At least not for me.

Yet a part of me still believes—
A fool’s hope, perhaps—
That in years to come,
When my war is over, and I’ve
Hung up sword and shield
For the last time,

I’ll follow that rainbow
To sapphire field
And find her there,
Still waiting for me,
Still white and frail.

And I’ll love her all the more
For her paleness, and for
Her brokenness—more
Than ever before.

In that day, time
Will belong to us,
And only us.

Our roots intertwined in
A garden of our own making,
I’ll let all the world fade in
A rush of fire and song,
Until all that’s left is her—

My Irish Rose.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash