You were born in a flat near the Liffey’s grey bend With a chipped violin and a brother to defend Your mother sold lace, your father sold dreams In the back of a pub where the Guinness still screams We played in the alleys, we danced in the rain You wore secondhand boots and a daisy-chain Then one day you vanished, like mist off the quay And the city grew quiet without you and me Where do you go to, my Siobhán? When the chandeliers dim and the patrons have gone Do you still hum the tune from the old Ballybawn Or has Paris replaced your sweet Dublin dawn? They say you were seen in Madrid with a Count Wearing silk from Milan and a bank account You dine with collectors, you toast with the stars But your eyes still betray where your memories are A letter came back with no name and no seal From a flat in old Galway, near Eyre Square’s keel I wrote of the rain and the songs from the bay But your silence, Siobhán, washed me away Where do you go to, my Siobhán? When the moon hits the sea like a memory’s kiss Do you dream of the boy with the freckled fist Or just sip your champagne and pretend not to miss? A friend saw you dancing in Marrakesh sun With a poet whose words weighed more than a gun You passed him a look that could silence a storm But your steps seemed rehearsed, too perfect, too warm I heard your voice on a late London stream Singing verses that drifted like half-spoken dreams The accent had faded, the smile was learned But I still knew the fire that never quite burned Where do you go to, my Siobhán? When the crowds fade away and the makeup runs thin Do you think of the boy and the alleys we’re in Or just walk on in velvet, untouched by your sin?
