Deirdre, dark-browed, dawn-eyed, Daughter of omen, Cry-born in cold twilight, Foretold by seers before thy swaddling. Thy weeping woke warriors from sleep, Thy beauty broke banns and bonds. I held thee in hush and honor— Hidden from hearths, lest hearts be ruined. I gave thee chambers close-curtained, Candles of amber, Goblets graven by goldsmiths, Soft sheets sweeter than summer rain. Hounds I kept for thy feet, Harpers for thy fancies— All Ulster’s treasure held breathless Before thy brow, waiting thy word. Yet thou fledst— Fair-footed through frost and fern, Following Noisha the smooth-skinned slayer and singer, Light-limbed, leaf-crowned, hero hailed Whose blade was bright but never bloodless, Whose oaths were younger than mine. He bore thee over yon narrow seas, But none outruns the reach of a king. but none outruns the reach of me Did I not warn thee? Did I not speak slow and solemn? The crown may cleave, The hearth may harden. My wrath, once woken, Knows no measure or care for weeping. But still—I would have spared thee, Would have raised thee higher than queens. Now blood darkens the doorposts, The sons of Uisliu lie low, And thou—stone-eyed, Silent as winter’s hill— as silent as the stones that mark them there you Standest beside their cairns, Uncloaked, uncomforted. This sorrow sprang from thy choosing, Not from my chains. I am Connor mac Nessa, King of red-walled awen, Breaker of tribes, Bringer of law. But I am a man, And my heart is hollowed— Where once thy laughter curled, Only wind walks now. O woman of wounding will, Why was I not enough? Gold I gave thee, And greatness. But thy heart hearkened only to youth, To sweet songs and soft glances. And now thy music is silence, And thy bed is stone. I sit in my hall with none to warm it. The torches gutter. My warriors whisper. And still I see thee— Pale wraith, proud shadow, Walking where no feet fall. If I could bind the stars, I would give them to thee. Yet thou wouldst not bend, Wouldst not bow, Wouldst not be won by king or kindness. So let the poets speak thy name With sorrow and steel, Let them carve thy tale in cold ash. For I, Connor, still call thee, Though thy ear is lost to me. And what was thy end, flame-hearted? Not death in pride, but slow unmaking. A year in the house of Owen— Enemy, goat-eyed, grinning. Thy hair unbound, thy laughter broken, Thy will worn thin by waking. That was the price of thine choosing: To lie beneath the heel of the hated. to be a ewe, in the eye of many rams.
