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Sidhe Gathering ©

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Lavergne, USA
2003

The winds sweep the Northern hills
and cover deep the heilan plains,
Where lochs filled to the misty, Icy air
Join to the elemental cries.
Here in these Glens of ancient ways
the world awakens to the Old Ones,
where destiny hovers but in simple breaths,
and calls upon those timeless stories.
I have gathered deep these Celtic songs
that rage the form of mortal clay
to surround us like dreams and faded glories,
They come in visions crested, blazing bright.
In the Sidhes, their music plays to the eternal jigs
that romp the land and embrace the day
to their eternal vibrations of that coming morn,
when again these shores they fill, freely
undisturbed by mortal foes and degraded fields.
I have heard tales that linger within the soul
that truly gather from their otherworldly realms
and in them the promises of a brighter life,
a more tender way.

The dreamers filter their delusional embrace
and fall to earth to the truth awakened
But here in these folds of the eternal song
One walks the silent tread ways, the silent groves
Where the long faded Druids once gathered,
taught and raised a race, a people, a Tradition.
And brought forth within silvery lakes and mystical caverns
A land that was to bear the history of time.
I have heard the ancient voices calling
amidst the gale's long swirling whine,
and here, where their ancient stones vibrate
I join their silent whisperings of Hope.
The old ones again gather, awaiting
In man's demise again they'll rise
to fly the corners and take again the structures
of all that once they freely held and formed.
The Dagda with his heavy club behind him,
cutting the earth's sweet scented soil,
cleansing the land from the impurities of mortal man.


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