Celtic Legend by Eliza Witte - HTML preview

Apocalypse

The marsh is waiting in its hunger.

Islands – cold and opened graves.

Messages of coming thunder

Are floating over bloody waves.

Divine, the ghost of crying willows In prayers raise their naked hands And pass the prophecy through wind blows As stand on guard on sacred lands.

Expecting ground – upset and breathless.

Grass and anger in her hair.

Pain is hunting mad and sleepless, And strong, and evil, and unfair.

Now recognized are rage and wisdom.

Wreckage voice moans from the deep, Passing terror in a synchrony With the last souls’ dying weep.

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It Used to Be My Childhood - Mom The spirits were sleeping, But the mountain woke up!

The forest was breathing,

Wheedling over the fog.

The morning which was about to begin…

Here and there a tomtit would sing In the heads of the trees, still heavy from sleep.

The air would listen, how the dear would weep.

Clouds would bother the peaks with their run.

Mystic and power – the rise of the sun!

A dewdrop on the needle of the old, white pine tree: Colors… the view for the life of the skies.

And Mom was laughing. The world could see The child in the adoration of her lovely brown eyes.

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It Used to Be My Childhood - Dad It was again the middle of June.

The meadows were fresh. The grasses imagined Adventures in green. They would reveal soon To young curiosity colorful legends.

The air of the mountain, the mystery, the game.

Search for hope among the fir trees.

The trail of a squirrel, the butterfly’s chase Till dusk - the night would fall with its cuddling peace.

The sleep was so heavy; the breath was so pure, Spilled on the pillow the silk of my hair.

And the dreams were smiling, and the dreams were so sure That the next day’d approach and it’d be all theirs.

Whiteness, the secret of the mountain would keep!

Simple is sometimes Heaven’s surprise.

And Daddy was laughing and the world could see A boy in the adoration of his lovely, green eyes.

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