Rooted in the quiet earth beneath
Which enjoys the quiver as harebells
Relinquish perfect scoops of breeze
Absorbs the syllables when rain lowers
Its silver chorus to coalesce
With granite rocks terse with thirst
And tight with the force of unfreed voice
Feels the moon on its fields brightening
The length of night out in the nowhere
That would love a name like Conamara
The mountain remains a temple of listening
Over years its contours concede to the lonesome
Voices brittle with the threat of what is gathering
Towards their definite houses below
Harvesting the fragments of sound
Into its weight of stillness.
--John O'Donohue
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