by Eavan Boland

In the worst hour of the worst season of the worst year of a whole people a man set out from the workhouse with his wife. He was walking — they were both walking — north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up. He lifted her and put her on his back. He walked like that west and west and north. Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead. Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history. But her feet were held against his breastbone. The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold. There is no place here for the inexact praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body. There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Worm Moon by Mary Oliver

Moon Song by Roy Ivan Johnson

To Catch the Moon by Chong Bum Kim

Morning Song by Sara Teasdale

Not The Moon by Margaret Atwood

Everyone Is Asleep by Enomoto Seifu-jo

The Sweetness of Dogs by Mary Oliver

The Moon Looked Into My Window by E. E. Cummings

Dear Moon by Warsan Shire

The Poet Of Ignorance by Anne Sexton

Owl and Pussycat, Some Years Later by Margaret Atwood

Will You Come? by Edward Thomas

If My Hands Could Peel by Federico García Lorca

Days Of Kindness by Leonard Cohen

The Moonlight by Noah Buchholz

The Moon was But a Chin of Gold by Emily Dickinson

It’s more important to be the preserver of peace in this war-ridden world where blood is wasted like water. If I am to pick up arms and fight, I will always pick the weapon of love. there are so many already holding the gun. 

What if I have to sacrifice a thing or two and be meek at times? but when the times have passed, the seeds of love I sow today will bear fruits tomorrow. 

And you will remember me when you see the future generations play under their shade, giggling together and holding hands without any reluctance.