GalGael Poetry

Consequences

2011-05-26T05:34:00.000-07:00

The following poem was handed in today by the uncle of its author. He explained to us that quite soon after his writing of the poem the young man committed suicide. If we are to gain anything from this tragedy it would surely be to take heed of his message within the verses of the poem. Our thoughts are with the poet and his family and we hope that his powerful words will prevent someone else from walking down the same road. We thank him for his wisdom and mourn him and the fact that the world has lost a young man who was obviously intelligent and with a talent for helping others.

The poets mother passed away soon afterwards.

Consequences

I'm just a lad of sixteen years

But my life is almost done

Folk say, at sixteen years of age

Your life has just begun

The reason for my sorry state

Is really sad to tell

My pals were dabbling in the drugs

So I joined in as well

I knew that drugs were contraband

Taboo, against the law

But my pals were doing it, so, so would I

After all, it's just a "blaw"

One night, one mate dared me

With a "whitey" in his hand

Come on kid, try a "whitey"

It'll make you really grand

Another night, he came to me

I was "skint", dead stoney broke

We went into my bedroom

And I was introduced to "coke"

Heroin, coke, LSD

I think Iv'e tried them all

Oh; taking drugs was just the thing

I felt like ten feet tall

But then one day I overdosed

For I had seen, at last

What all those drugs were doing to me

And had done in the past

My family life was ruined

My mother broke her heart

And that was when I asked myself

Why did I ever start?

Why did I destroy myself?

And throw my life away

And get myself into the state

That I am in today

I have the dreaded A.I.D.S. disease

Or, so the doctors say

That's why I took the overdose

To end my life today

So, take heed my fellow druggies

I try to make you see

You repeat what I once uttered

It can't happen to me

My eyes are getting heavy now

And the pen, it weighs a ton

But, by the time you read this letter

My young life will be done

So, goodbye my fellow druggies

My tale I had to tell

Just keep going the way you're going

And we'll meet again, in Hell.

Tributes

2011-05-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

GalGael have recently lost two good friends Colin Callaghan and Keith Dolan- both young and in their forties. We would like to express our sympathies to their friends and relations and remember them here too in words.

Colin Callaghan was employed by one of the local addiction agencies and often referred folk to our Navigate Life course and also put one or two volunteers in our direction too. He loved coming into GalGael and we loved working with him. He always stood up for the underdog and was always ready to speak out against the injustices meted out to people dealing with big agencies and organisations. We always hoped we would work more closely with Colin as he had much experience we could have learned from, and he was a peoples person with a great wit.We will miss him greatly.

Keith was a "guid soldier". Haunted by some of the things he witnessed while with the Armed Services abroad, he found it a struggle to find his way back into normal life. He had a great energy about him though, and loved working and having a purpose and despite his own problems was always willing to help others. He will be missed by all his friends at GalGael and at the Elderpark Community Food Garden. One friend has written a poem in tribute to him.

For Keith

There was a Scottish soldier

Keith Dolan was his name

Now that he’s gone our Govan clan

Cannot be the same

Keith took the Crown’s bright shilling

They sent him off to war

To Bosnia to help the weak

Be massacred no more

To keep his comrades’ safety

Keith had to take a life

Keith’s mind and heart were blown apart

He couldn’t bear that strife

When I was sick and lonely

Ne’er one place nor the other

Keith was first man said, “Join our clan!”

“You’re welcome here, my brother.”

Keith would help, not think of self

Ask nothing in return

But all the while, behind his smile

White-hot his wounds would burn

Alas, I could not help him

As he had once helped me

Where was the Crown when Keith was down?

Not around to see

It brings us some scant solace

Keith can be hurt no more

But he who served did not deserve

To die behind the door

I’ll miss you Keith, my brother

Our friendship was too brief

But since you’ve gone to journey on

I hope you can find peace

Birlinn fills the silence

2010-06-30T07:24:00.000-07:00

Some time ago I had an unusually vivid dream, a rare one that left me with a positive expectancy for days after. In the dream I wandered into an old dilapidated workshop. The roof had given way while glass and debris lay all around. Drug user’s needles poked up from piles of cans and broken bottles and a constant dripping noise echoed out any other sound. I felt very fearful and had to summon the courage to move forward through the building. Suddenly, as I turned a corner there stood the most beautiful exotic tree, quite unexpected. A clear pond full of plant and aquatic life was there next to the tree which had itself grown out of the stone floor. It was an image of sheer unsurpassed beauty in the midst of decay. A few days later I heard a radio Scotland interview with Colin Macleod talking about the Galgael Trust. I had not heard of Galgael until that moment but thought that the organisation and their tree logo related to the dream and the overall theme of new life growing from an old industrial landscape.

Birlinn fills the silence

The rabble of my dream-world stilled

‘A message’ brought halt to nightly adventures

There I was alone in strange enclosure

Beneath rusting iron beams on feeble tenures

Whistling wind filled buildings,

empty Twisted corrugates had given way to sky

The visible remains of a speech less tanoy,

Dry docks drier than bone dry

A place that once supported kind and kin

And enthusiasm for life’s gifts

Had now receded and grown thin

A tale of the wind that shifts

The solitary echo of falling water drops

drip, Drip, DRIP

Drills a hole in ones heart

A lifeless shipyard, broken glass underfoot

Where the threads of life depart

Used syringe that once contained liquid ‘bolt hole’

A serum to take one to the edge of known time

They were caste among the discards

Smashed bottles of strong lager and cheap wine

Each step into further fear,

the fading myth Wondered what it could revealed to ‘me’

And there with unapologetic place of worth

Renewal in the serenity of a tree

Root demands surface unconditional ‘life’

Branches sway to sooth conditions Inherent in common strife

A primary coloniser to an inhospitable place

Breathing, purifying the air

Where we still hear the whirl of the lathe

A wooden column of growing strength

That sprung from solid stone Points towards a state of being

Forgotten but not unknown

The threat of silence resisted, hammer falls once more

Who knows what the rigors of industry had in store

Building boats now to voyage internally to undiscovered shore

Propeller thrust superseded by rhythm of wooden oar

The bearing fruit and seed of tree

Caste in places that they once knew

And Birlinn fills the silence

Where the great ships horns blew

Desmond Mc Donald Simpson.

This Boat

2010-05-21T06:24:00.000-07:00

This boat, made by many hands
Crafted with love
Fragile on the vastness of the ocean

Guided by an infinity of stars

Holds the hopes and dreams

Of dreamers

This boat, made of wood

An ark

Hewn from imagination

Carries an ideal into the future

This boat, so like a crucible

Cradle of kith and kin

Sets one down gently

On the shore of a dear green place

Where the salmon run

Birds take flight

Fruit hangs heavy on the tree of life.

The tintinnabulation of bells echoes

Down through the years.

Mick McLaughlan.

Cold Steel Chisel

2010-05-12T06:12:00.000-07:00

Cold______You are a legend
No one knows your nom de guerre.
Steel_____ You are a legend
Surrounded by a monumental myth.
Chisel____ You are a legend
some poor mother's son.

On_______You are a legend
You should be left to lie in peace.
Cold______You are a legend
resurrected to fool other mothers children.
Black_____ You are a legend
Someone should say
Enough.
Granite___ You are a legend
The legend on your stone reads.

Unknown soldier.

By Michael McLaughlan

They were not angels

2010-02-24T03:41:00.000-08:00

They were not angels,
Who agreed the purchase of the land.
Who packed boulders into foundation trenches,
their sleeves rolled back, their robes kilted,
heaving stone and wood
With the sweat of man upon it,
Hauling into sight the dream of future years.

They were not angels,
Who flattened the land and built the sheds,
Who worked high on gantries, plying the rivets,
In noise, in confusion, and danger, and delay.
Their floating towers screeching down
upon a slipway to the sea.

Sliding into silence-
Hammers still-
Fires out-
pride- like broken bottles on wasteground.

Reach out for the plane,
Slide your finger-tips here,
Here you belong.
And pride coming back like the turn of the tide,
The wind on the water, each keel slicing by,

And hauling into sight the dream of future years,
Our vision, our work, our mark, our life,
Not angels, but people - the makers of worlds.

Moyna McGlynn

The Homecoming

2009-09-09T05:05:00.000-07:00

The bond that was broken
Still held in a token
Still caught in the sigh
From the dream in your eye
Misty mountains
Gloomy glens
Ancient landscapes
And long lost friends
Magical islands
Of stolen childhoods
Foreign cultures
Forgotten tongues
A distant yearning
For a heart that is mourning
Please come home
To where you belong . . .

Hugh DP McArthur FSA Scot
Clan Arthur Seannachie

Mariners Message

2009-07-21T05:37:00.000-07:00

Some nice words from our old mate Giles who is at sea on the Clyde Challenger.

On Abhainn Cluaidh's mantle,
From the pool of Saint Ninian's Bay
I send word.
Many Moons in silver waters have plunged
since I last saw you all,
Companions of the Heart.
I think on you often -
joyful salt-eyed meditatations and then as now it fair brings a tear
to the eye!
I hope very much to see you all soon,ashore.

Love Giles

Collage

2009-06-16T04:38:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Rev. Moyna McGlynn from Govan Old Parish Church for this wonderful contribution and for reminding us of what a special place Govan remains to be, despite all it's problems. T.

In the early mist of morning, monks wading ashore. Sunlight on the landing stage. They have come from down-river.
There is a settlement here already, small huts, woven fences for animals; some fishing, a few acres of crop.
The water is cold on bare feet, but the land is stony, hard packed, solid.
This is the place. This is the place where God is. This is the place where the broken feet of Christ will stand.

All those running feet. Bringing prayers and petitions. Carrying coffins for the dead. Brides walking with dignity into new responsibilities. Every anxiety whispered into the wood and stone. Unknowing children, borne in arms for the dove to alight upon them in beads of water. Wine and wafer, dry tasting on the tongue, the ambrosia of immortality. Music and words: curling around the beams and the bright windows. The footprints of family and belonging. The touch of cold stone, and all the knots of birth, life, death patterned for eternity.

Hands raised in assent on Doomster Hill, and raised to lift the metal plates and strike the rivet in Doomster’s sheds. High up, higher than ever the hill was, on gantries of wooden or metal poles, they do their work . Fists raised in anger, labour strikes, domestic blows, raising glasses for the pleasure of doing, being, raising glasses for ruin and pain. Voices raised in well-loved hymns, voices raised in frustration. Men calling from the high ships, men murmuring as the hooter calls, and all pour through the wide gates onto the street.

Women shopping, chattering, cleaning, boiling whites in steam as hot steel furnaces. Dragging water-weighted blankets, pushing them against the drag into mangle-rollers. Carrying: miscarrying: carrying shopping, carrying children, carrying furniture from house to house, paying rent, making excuses for not paying rent, carrying heavy irons, scalding to the touch.. Ekeing out money when the hammers fall silent and the men waste their days and strength in bars and clubs.

Civic pride, shops with hats for weddings, and town halls (no less than two), schools where children can learn to cross the globe finding work in new worlds, on Canada’s lake-oceans and Cheltenham, in Sydney, Johannesburg, and Auckland. Lectures, here at the Pearce: on sewing, on making a little income go a long way, on new scientific discoveries, on philology - on hard benches. Sermons kindly or hectoring, hopeful or damning, on hard pews.

Broken pieces: families laid waste, children bruised, knowing little, knowing no love or patchy love at best, without the verb to work, without the doing skills. Buildings fallen into shabbiness and disuse, industries moved on: the unwanted left behind.

This is the place where God is: this is the place where the broken feet of Christ will tread; in all the fallen, broken, renewing, restoring, warp and weft and hope of living.

Moyna McGlynn.

An Eaglais Mhor

2009-05-13T02:04:00.000-07:00

An excellent contribution from our friend Stuart McHardy
(Folk from Dundee can write poetry too ye know)

*AN EAGLAIS MHOR

There are nae stane waas
tae the kirk in whilk A worship
nae wrocht gless
tae tint the licht
fraer the ivver-cheengin lift;
ma psalms ring oot i the ripplin burn
ma daily hymn's the soughin win
on whilk A see the lauchin lintie soar,
an fer ma catechis an rite
A read the widland craturs run
the reid hert's stately grace
the flicht o startlit cushats
an the dewdrap spangle
o the speedart's lace;
an whiles ah bou ma knee
tae better speir
jist whaur A staun,
an, liftin ma een
cin clearly see
A am but pairt
o whit A lou
an whit lous me;
fer aa A see
is bit ae pairt o whit maun be
ilk ane o uso aa things pairt
an pairt o aa things;
sae here A stauni
the middle o the universe
abune the hairt
o oor mither earth,
the licht, the lift
an life itsel
aroun an aboot
abune an ablow,
An Eaglais Mhor
An Eaglais Mhor

fer me./stuart mchardy sept 95/

My Dream

2009-03-03T09:03:00.000-08:00

It was a couple of nights ago that I had my dream. It's not the kind Iv'e had before, it was weird and sad.

It was about this little bird I had found, but when I looked at it again I was shocked to find it was a baby eagle.

So I took it home and fed it till it got a little bit older.

Then, one afternoon I heard this thud at my window, which gave me the shock of my life to see the mother of the baby eagle.

Then she disappeared into thin air.

She never did come back for Hunter, which I called him, so I kept Hunter but knew I had to let him go one day.
So, I decided to take him to a place called Barmaddy, which is a farmhouse we go to now and again. Galgael is doing it up, so I took him there to set him free.

It broke my heart, but was happy to see him fly around but anytime I went back there I always saw hunter. So that was my dream- one i will never forget.

Rosie

Big Braw Boats

2009-03-03T08:56:00.000-08:00

We are Birlinn
The seagull saunter
With a swan glide
We expose the heart
As we pick up stragglers
Cast adrift
Sailing onward
Richer
Richer "for a' that".
Rab!
Ye were richt
Its comin'yet!

Alan T.

(Pic. Orcuan on the Firth of Clyde 2008)

Wan o' the Crew.

2009-01-27T06:05:00.000-08:00

Galgael, GalGael,
Make your boat,
And watch it sail,
Going far and sometimes near,
Brave like Scotland.
Have no fear,
The butt n' ben,
Is very near,
Jaggy thistles,
And lucky heather,
This boat will
Last in any weather,
GalGael forever.

James McLauchlan

Extract from "Fight or Flight" , A collection of GalGael writings compiled by Chris Adams

2009-01-22T07:14:00.000-08:00

Our people dispersed
Culture eclipsed
The colourful plaid
Outlawed discarded

Colonial migration programs enforced
The commercial curse
The land is sold and nature is raped
Exploited by the beasts

Our remnants
make profits
the Iscariot way

The land needs people
To love and care for it
Repair and heal it

The Bright Ones of these Isles
Must fight the good fight
End the marketing of our kingdom

Viking, Roman, Saxon
Germanic plunder
Before the day is done
We must battle through
Burn their strongholds

Bring them to the alter
There is only one God

Swords pride greedy riots
Hacking the tree of life
We are coming to judge
The present situation
The Bright Ones of these Isles

Colin MacLeod.

Out of the darkness

2009-01-22T06:54:00.001-08:00

Out of the darkness, into the warm sunlight,
I'm finally believing the thoughts in my head are right,
but time moves on and the heart's still strong,
I know I can't change it,
Or put right what once went wrong,
But I believe in miracles i believe in something pure
I believe with faith in mind, nothng can harm you anymore.

There comes a time when you realise
That you are searching for answers
Then clarity burns in your heart
You open your eyes, see for the very first time.
Everyones life is riddled with mines.
But I believe in miracles.
I believe in something pure.
I believe with faith in mind, nothing can harm you anymore.

The light shines on the darkness
But darkness turns his face
The light like a child he reaches out
But the darkness refrains its embrace.

Big George.

Eternal Clann

2009-01-21T04:08:00.000-08:00

(forgive us Rabbie, we love you dude)

If distinction the Creator maks’
Twixt’ those amang the masses
The fowk wha go wi’ guid intent
Rank highest o’ the classes

Through honest work an’ skill o’ hand
In Natures celebration -
Respect o’ Life, and kinship
Bequeathed doon generations

Whit can ye gie? whit can ye tak?
Whit hae ye for the table?
Broth an’ breid we hae tae share
Tae mak’ ye strong an’ able

O’ heart fire that unites us a’
Gie spirit, warmth and nurture
An’ courage tae embrace sic grace
Love is the only culture

The myth o’ progress shackles man
To war against the earth
Noo’s the hour tae break the chains
An’ recognise oor worth

Then unicorn shall wander free
Spirit now unfettered
The plans o' men enslave their souls
But the Clann can ne'r be bettered

Tam and all the Plane Castle posse

Mother Alba

2008-12-11T06:54:00.000-08:00

Mother Alba
Crashing chilled tumults define your form
Mists crown your high places.
Lochans adorn your sylvan neck
Strung together by the bracing gale
That breaks on your coat of birch, hazel and pine.

Mother Alba
Your children unite with the soaring birds
And creatures among the shading oaks
Or vigilant stag on the high ridge.
We joyously share in your bounty,
Our spirits sing on beholding you.

Mother Alba
You have shaped us in your image
You have made of us adventurers
Forged upon your high seas and mountains
To survive where others flounder
And to honour you from afar

Mother Alba
Our wanderings bring us back to you
Like the greylag and salmon
In the name of progress some would exploit you
But you lay low their mightiest works with gentle flowers
We who cherish you are your children

Mother Alba
You are wild and beautiful
And none can possess you
But our hearts are yours
Your spirit gives us life
Land of the soul, Mother Alba

Tam.

2008-11-19T09:02:00.000-08:00

WHEN I WAKEN IN THE MORNING, I ALWAYS SIT AND DWELL

IS THERE A HEAVEN, IS THERE A HELL

WILL THERE BE WARS IN THE FUTURE, LIKE THERE ARE NOW

IF SO BROTHERS AND SISTERS, HOW LONG ARE WE GOING TO ALLOW

WHO GAVE HIM THE ORDER, WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT

BET HE'S NOT IN THE FRONT LINE HAVING TO FIGHT

BANG GOES A MISSILE A MILLION POUNDS UP IN SMOKE

WE JUST KILLED A GENERAL AND TWO THOUSAND INNOCENT FOLK

FLIES ON BABIES FACE NOW, TOO HUNGRY TO SMILE

MOTHERS HEARTBROKEN BABY WILL DIE IN A WHILE

DADDY PAYS HIS SCHOOL FEES BORN TO LOOK DOWN HIS NOSE

JUMP IN HIS SPORTS CAR, OFF TO WORK HE GOES

POWER IS POWER IS MONEY, MONEY IS GREED

IT’S ALL AROUND US, HOW MUCH DO WE NEED?

THERE MUST BE A HEAVEN, THERE MUST BE A HELL

BUT WE'VE TOO MANY SECRETS, AND NO ONE TO TELL.

DREW AND WILLS 2000

Short script written by Seumas for "Sparr" performance

2008-11-19T06:02:00.000-08:00

Since the dawn of time our ancestors have been navigating the waters of Alba

From the dug-out canoe, to the Currach, to the Hebridean Galley - the Birlinn
Greyhound of the Sea

Sailing the Orkney Isles to the Isle of Man, the Butt of Lewis to the Mull of Galloway

Native Clans with Somhairle Mac Gille Bride - Tighearnan nan Eilean

Up river to Govan, the town of the Smith, Am Baile Gobhainn,

Across to iona, Heisker, St Kilda and beyond

Defying Roman invasion

Repelling Viking attack

Resisting Southern aggression

Proud Gaels, defending our shores, riding the storm, and bringing home their catch.

Seumas.

We are the Galgael

2008-11-17T08:20:00.000-08:00

We are the GalGael
We make swords from soup
So we can stab and slash
The loneliness of hunger
Oor beautifully decorated targe
Is massif and strong
It protects us from divisive dogma doctrine

Sacred sporrans hingin’ fae belts
Pour sumptuous nutrients
Intae the mooths of the anger avoiders
O the tartan is dazzling
Ancient modern threads are connected
Colours of infinity
Hues of warmth and nurture

Long sharp shiltram spears
Defend us from the selfish and harmfull
We watch wan anithers backs
Hame made stiff woolly bonnets
Give eyes shade
To the dazzling glare of consumerism
Also keepin’ the heid warm
In contemplative concentration

Tackity boot wellie coorans
Assemble gracefully in battle formation
Remembering relatives poetic murmurs
Breengin’ forward with pride conviction
Nae need tae chib

Legs that hing doon fae kilts
Will run tae all corners of oor earth
To celebrate
The precious honesty of native
Rich traditional battle tunes belt oot
As we position to dance
Ancient Elvis, modern pictish and gallus Gaelic
Drive us onward

Oor hearts beat tae the pulse
Of the bees wing….the way
Oor veins gush with the rivers and burns of Scotland
The rocks are oor relatives
Their soft rhythmic roar
Constant
We move along the spiral
To honour the Sun
Each movement a gift
We are the Galgael
We are the Soup Makers

Alan T.

2008-11-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

Chieftain for a coming age

Colin of the treetop
Lashed onto the swaying bough
His banner below him
Alone in his defiance
Calling us to gather, where the roots are.

MacLeod of the hearth fire
Offering heat and a warm cup
Words that burn, words that heal
Deeds that shake the foundation
Of what we knew before

Colin of the native woodland
Oak, robin, fox and tiny flower
Watching, learning, being
They are of our community
We are all of the infinite cycle

MacLeod the warrior
Soldier of truth
Hands raised against him
The knife pierced him
But did not deter him

Colin the carver
Lumps of dead wood
Become soaring eagles
The broken branch
Is a leaping salmon

MacLeod the alchemist
Gobhnus crucible he stirs
Where others see base metal
He sees shining gold
Of the human heart

Colin the rope-worker
Bringing the loose strands together
Spirit, community and the precious earth
Pleated firmly in unity
By a strong gentle hand

MacLeod of the stone
Pounding the unyielding granite
Ancient symbols appear
Icons of the past
Signposts for the coming age

Colin the tiller man
Ploughing the oceans furrows
Planting seeds of hope
A crew blossoms
He is taken from us but still points the way home.

Tam.

2008-11-17T07:58:00.000-08:00

Now for you.

Now for you there is no rain
For one is shelter to the other
Now for you, the sun shall not burn
For one is shelter to the other
Now for you, nothing is hard or bad
For goodness and badness is taken
By one for the other.

Now for you, there is no night
For one is light to the other
Now for you, the snow has ended always
For one is protection for the other
It is that way from now on, from now on
Now it is good and there is always food
And now there is always drink
And now there is comfort
Now there is no loneliness

Rosie McHarg

2008-11-17T07:57:00.001-08:00

Oimelc (Imbolc) at Galgael
Soulsmith, we kindle your sacred fire
In the hearth of Goibhnu today
You all- embracing mantle of light
Shall bathe us in it’s ray

New life springs forth on Scotias land
The nurturing milk of ewe
The tears of winter falling now
To mingle with the dew

And the healing of your gentle heart
Shall touch us all today
The weary the lamb will beckon forth
To his wedding feast in May

Oh! Blessed midwife of the Gael
Your child exalted shall be
As the solstice fire will brightly burn
A beacon for all to see

And Lughnasahs funeral games
Let Tailtu honoured be
Rhiannons steed to pound the waves
Upon thy holy sea.

Then at Samhain’s Sacred Feast,
You’ll open the portals wide
We’ll join with the ancestors once again
To praise our holy Bride.

As Winter Solstice draws forth age,
Oh Mary of the Gael,
You’ll close your eyes in weariness,
Your face behind a veil.

Galgael will keep your sacred coals
And guard your holy broom,
At each Imbolc, we’ll light the flame
And sweep away the gloom.

And in Thy blessed Church of Oak,
The Holy Cross of Days,
Eternity Thy mantle spreads
In Ogmas Solar Rays.

And forged by Gobhniu’s precious hand
Base metal turned to gold
The ancient Cauldron you will stir
The seasons to unfold.

Chant (3x):
Imbolc:
Pron.: eemelk
“Oimelc” – the first milk (lactation) of the ewe
Thig! Thig! Brid, Brid
Failte, Failte, Fad na tide
Phonetics:
Heeck! Heeck! Breege, Breege,
Falchuh, falchuh, fad na teege
Meaning:
Come! Come! Bridget, Bridget.
Welcome! Wlecome! All the time.
Gu Galgael
Le
Beannchdan
Anna Nic Aonghous.

2008-11-17T07:54:00.001-08:00

LIGHTS OUT

I said its alright I’ve been doing this for years,
But the guy didn’t know what to do,
When I turned chalk white and I hit the deck
And my lips turned a misty blue,
For all those times that I hit the pin,
Wiped out and drowned in sin,
It’s my time to have a try,
To figure out if I live or die

Cause the lights are out but I’m still home,
The front doors open but I’m not going,
It’s do or die it’s fight or flight,
So tell me why does this feel so right?
For tonight I think I tasted heaven,
And I want another bite

Told myself my life was tragic thought,
I’d already reached my peak and that the years,
Ahead were meaningless which all looked grey and bleak,
Like a pill popped at a party,
Which came on to quick,
I was full of love at the start of it,
But then I just felt sick

The light’s still out but I’m still home,
But the front doors closing and I think I’m going,
Then an angel wearing yellow said come on dear,
And at that point it became so clear,
For tonight I’d tasted something,
But that something was fear.

Anonymous GalGaelian