I feel sorry for the banshee
who screams, lonely, in the night.
I don't want her to roam the Irish countryside
wailing for great families, warning,
like killing, longing for something substantial.
She was beautiful once, wasn't she?
She was created with the same blood as faeries.
I want her grave-robe to be replaced by wings.
She deserves to be more than a ghost, a myth.
I want her to abandon her duties from the Otherworld
and go find someone to love—someone who can look past
her three different forms, her three different moans.
Everybody needs someone to love.