Looking out to Screen sky,
in Sligo North,
a stage set of over sixty stars,
too many for the human eye
to count, infinity.
None are equidistant,
as if thrown like shiny coins
upon the dreamy path of love,
as if another milky way.
Behind the trees some peep,
as if from Christmas tree.
Like fairy lights on branches.
And night where dreams hint,
along the quiet and unconscious
mind,
beside the wise observant mountain moon,
the owl of night,
lit, as if a starry fresco in the
dome of prayer,
and out from there,
with golden edge,
the day comes from
the starry Sligo sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem