The Land of Cudhabeen: a Bedtime Story.

by Lazarian Wordsmith
(Ireland)

In the land of Cudhabeen
You could ask for a bedtime story
And I could tell you one.

What would it be about?
What would you ask for?

Would you ask for life?
Would you ask that
It never happened:

That you came and went
So soon. So very soon.

I don't know and I will
Never have the answer:
It's your answer that you

Never got to give.
And can't now.

At least not in words,
Or a language we understand.
Did you answer in the wind?

That time, I thought
I heard you whispering.

Did you sweep the gentle rain drops
Onto my cheeks?
To wash away my sad tears.

Sad tears not just for you
But for all who went too soon.

Did you send the heat to comfort my bones?
My stooped back creaking and sore.
And then: the warmth.

Was it your warmth?
Healing me. But only my body.

My mind in the land of Cudhabeen,
Will never stop asking why?
Why me? Why us? Why them?

There is no happy ever after
In this story.

And yet sometimes you chase that darkness
And show the new light,
The new season to me:

That for now, my child,
Will keep me hopeful.

And in time perhaps,
In another telling
Of the next story. You

Will get to hold me
In your arms.