As the mists spiral before you, you catch a glimpse of green, a flash of movement and the sound of the drum mingling with the voice of the singer who is your guide. She beckons and you follow, hungry for a time that is long in the past. As you pass into the grey formless space ahead, the ground beneath your feet seems to fall away, though you do not fall with it. The mist is cold, though it does not chill you. As you follow the sound of the song, it tells you of perfect love, of the the hero who fights for a name that will last forever, of times past and times yet to come. Green hills are in the song, and as the drum grows louder, water flows through the sound, cascading down the strings of a harp. That music dances with her voice, and as the mists give way, they are standing on the hillside, waiting to welcome you.
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Food in Ancient Ireland: |
Words of Wisdom may be Directed To: