Celtic Legend by Eliza Witte - HTML preview
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Children of the Rocks
The storm would wither their name.
Their faces – salty drops on them.
Coldness cuts and causes pain, And faith will never be the same!
The mull was holly once – the spots Of moss… it used to be their home.
Now gratitude in green is locked, And only alters are white stones.
Down beneath – the roaring sea.
Its insidiousness bothered
To leave unanswered their plea For new from their youngest brother.
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