In a place like Ireland, I wish to die,
with the fine rain dissolving into the green,
weighing on my eyes, the fields to be covered,
waking to gaze at the sea that never dies.

Where the waves crash upon the shore,
and the leaden blue of the deep, cold sea,
welcomes me like a cruel bellows’ roar,
loving Ireland in dreams, with a late-born love.

Leopold Bloom lost me in its winding paths, in Dublin
I saw steeples, churches, and desolation,
through the Ireland of hunger and fate,
where faith is more than earth and cry, ocean and frost.

Celtic crosses rise beneath the merciful sun,
of pain and redemption,
and the air of rain at rest,
caresses the pale face of the peasant from a bygone century.

I love the bread turned into consecrated body,
in the monasteries of stone and solitude,
I love Ireland, though I’ve never touched its ground,
and I long to die in its peace, in its truth.

And then to open my eyes in a place like this,
where the earth and sky merge into gray,
where the soul finds rest,
in a place like Ireland,

I wish.