Ireland has more than one colour

You rained all day every day, I remember it so clearly.

I had no money and I had one boy pretending to be a man next to me. 

Your grey skies poured through my clothes, 

and it was cold and damp and I hated stout. 

What a depressing place! I said, describing Cork.

That was my first. 

Then, there was May, and a castle, and this boy who claimed he loved me, 

and I spiraled out and scattered pieces of Mexican love all over your fields. 

I made your stone walls shake with my discovery of ecstatic joy. 

I missed my flight back to my girl, back to some sort of sanity, and I stumbled through Mallow looking for the returning path to Barcelona.

August came and with it my return. 

We, that entity that never really existed, collapsed in his backyard on Glasheen road, 

as I laid there topless, staring at blue skies, 

I asked them for answers that didn´t arrive.

I found my way back, 

and at last I stayed. 

I dug my way out of that boy's sorrows and I blended with your walls, 

I hid in your corners, 

I swam in your single-malt and your lager, 

and I chanted to some Dublin skies next to fiddles and bodhráns.

My body memorized your streets, and my voice attempted to imitate your accents, 

I found beauty in every Irish man I met, 

and I gave one of them my words,
another one my pounding heart.

Washington street, Lough Road, Friar's Walk, 

Bandon Road. Bandon Road. Bandon Road.

I rejoiced in your fields and tried to understand the rain more as a companion than as an obstacle. 

I was yours, entirely. And even in my darkest hours, I could loose myself in you and in your pubs, and not feel lonely. I could loose myself, I could let go, only to be wakened by the immensity of your ever-changing skies. 

I found love in you. and comfort. 

and relief. 

and joy. 

never again could I speak of former homes as unique. You became my home of choice. 

You became my daily willed presence in your soils. 

Until now. 

I long for you maybe because that's what I do best. 

I close my eyes and see your fields and I say "bring me back again". 

Nostalgia rules my pathways 

and I am one ever-longing non-presence still standing straight. 

In my last visit, you were summer. You were blossoming in every wall. 

Purple, green, pink, red, yellow. 

Sunlight. 

I tried to memorize the details this time around. The way the sun rays hit the stone, the way your clouds melt into each other opening the violet/red evening skies, the way the rain smells minutes before it hits the ground. Everything, I wanted to swallow everything and let it fill me up again so that when the void comes back, I can find you somewhere inside of me. 

I cried that Sunday, in intervals. 

Not for lost love, but for the roots I felt being pulled out again from your soil. 

I promised you to return and I carried your leaves and your sand and your raindrops under my skin, and here they are, pouring through my early morning thoughts. 

You recognize me as your foreign child. 

And I feel your calling as a way out of my lethargic state. 

Until my path brings me back to you, and I can find something else to long for...