This fairy woman of Ireland, set in history to be forthwith.
Messenger of death, is part of our folklore and myth
There are many tales of her sorrowful sound and sad cry
The wailing lament of the Banshee sigh
While she waits, she combs her long straight hair,
Warning the kin of their advancing despair.
She follows the names of a certain clan.
And prepares them first, as this is part of the plan.
If violent a death, her cloak of scarlet shall you see,
If a child, her appearance is sharp, but wee.
More will join in lamenting, if a holy person of esteem,
Chorus choir of banshees fill the air with pitiful screams.
Sometimes a carriage of death you may see,
It’s headless coach - dismal as can be.
You look in dread and fear as someone beckons you near.
It’s the Banshee herself with her long, straight hair.
That wailing lament of the Banshee sigh,
How sad and mournful is that screeching cry,
In the depth of darkness when all is quit
As a soul leaves human coil and takes flight.
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Comments about this poem (Inspiration by mai venn )
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