When the needle-trees have crick-a-cracked,
And blossomers have burst,
When the leaves rust red and fall down dead,
Then the fifth begins.

The sun will rise with two blue eyes.
The stars will fall as fireflies.

The trees will walk, the rocks will talk,
The rest fall silent as the stalk.

The fish will fly and swim the sky.
In their hurry, the birds will bury.

For darkling things will softly sing,
In the ears of killers and their kings,
Make them wail, wither and weep,
Blacken the barley that they reap.

The seas will freeze, the earth will froth,
The rivers will redden in their wroth.

As the clouds rain razors, red seas rise,
Rising high to drown the cries.

For all our rot, rivers will clot.
For all our lies, stars will die.
For all our sweat and piss and spit,
Our bellies will be softly slit.

For all our sins, the fifth begins.


This poem was published in The Irish Times Fighting Words magazine, a collection of stories, poems and essays by young and international writers