By Caroline Schwartzbeck
We know your name, Brigid We will never know you, Brigid
When your bones are dust and dirt When your bones are dust and dirt
The flame in your soul remains alive and well, The flame in your heart will be long gone,
Fanned every year at the start of spring. Leaving us with naught but plentiful questions
On the day of your bountiful feast And lacking much-needed answers:
When we welcome your spirit into our homes, When you awakened each morning,
Lending it our cooking and bedding Did you spring into motion, fresh and ready?
Even the birds sing of your arrival Or did you linger in sun-baked warmth?
On the field of valiant battle When your fellows took vigil to tend the flame
It is you we see leading us to victory; Did you join them? Did they hear your laugh?
And when we suffer great loss Was it a quiet snicker or howling roar?
You first sang our keening song. Before you passed, did they ever tell you
Legends of your generosity, bravery, kindness Your name was slipping through the cracks
Have spread far beyond your homeland Spreading far beyond your homeland
And you've been enshrined as a symbol forever. And you'd be enshrined as a symbol forever?