Within four walls of gold

the emerald hills of Eire roll,

and I wonder if you can hear it.

The undulating undertaker,

with his spade buried deep in the ground,

pounding it with his foot

to the inconvenient sound

of your stuttering arrhythmia.

Within four walls of gold

the emerald hills of Eire roll

and I wonder if you can hear it.

The distant swing and slice

of the dark, sharp scythe

plowing through fields of tall grasses,

making appeals to the masses, 

asking: Have You Seen Her?

It’s Time.

Within four walls of gold

the emerald hills of Eire roll

and I wonder if you can hear it.

The whispers that slink around your

ankles, wrists and ears,

binding shackles of acceptance of

death, abating only our own fears

because grief in all its glory is only for

the living.

Within four walls of gold

the emerald hills of Eire roll

and I wonder if you know.

That these gold walls are foolish, pyrite-not,

just mustard-colored paint that

one day will crumble and rot,

and the roof will cave in on this place

where people go to die.

Within four walls of gold

the emerald hills of Eire roll

and I wonder if they know.

In that next-place, that after-place,

that final-place where you are bound to go,

how you look in ruby, sapphire, gold.

Because beauty in this life is cruel

and you are fighting far too hard

to stay in this ugly place that

has deprived you your worth in every jewel.

Within four walls of gold

the emerald hills of Eire roll

and I wonder if you are ready.

To be welcomed by the choral song

of the Homeland hidden far too long,

To be met with glasses high in cheer,

Finally, you’re home, Sláinte, dear.

But until then, we gather round,

hold your hand and make no sound,

until that day comes, clear and true,

we will sit here, darling,

and wait for you.

For Sheila Anne DeCrane, September 19, 1946 — October 3, 2022.

Anna Fischer writes about female empowerment, literature and art. She’s really into bagels. Write to her at [email protected].