The Dead are Never Dead
A Song from the Grave
That tenor from the grave Sings from the long ago — Just a Ballyrean boy — Who forgets that first glow? ’Tis the second love I did wed — Still, there is that weight of the dead.
His body — so wet and cold — There, in some Kerry cove— Where we used to ramble — So weak we used to rove — Then toes all muddy in the lane — Singing like a fool in the rain.
That song heard just tonight — Sent me back to the past — When love thrummed fresh and free — Suspends time to fold fast — The refrain of that song — that air — The fair sick boy — who cared to dare.
“I think he died for me,” I tell my lover now. “He was sick. Yet he sang. His quest was like a vow. He died when I went to Dublin; Him so thin — and soaked to the skin.”
What did we know of love? What rooms secret we keep! The man reached out his hand. Knowing neither could sleep. What to say? Oh, the dread! How can one compete with the dead?
Thank you for reading. Inspired after the short story “The Dead” by James Joyce (1907) and published in Dubliners, the last story in the collection.
“O, the rain falls on my heavy locks And the dew wets my skin, My babe lies cold . . .” — “The Lass of Aughrim”
The original handwritten words of mine from 1990 when I was 21.
“Whispers from a grave of long ago Echo glories of a youthful soul Singing of the past A love which couldn’t last A voice without a face Who disappeared without a trace.”
Its original title was called “Whisperings.”
