Long ago there were nine,
of woven song,
at the core of time.
Spiraling from their trinities,
they carved in stones the tales of trees.

The seasons their story
and time their harp,
the sky their canvas
and the world their art.
Who sang the balance
the sun their muse,
nine were the song
at the beginning.

Spiraling back,
they bear a glimpse,
of forgotten secrets,
hidden until
the time of returning.

They are the poetry
that speaks from the stones,
they are memories of time;
lost but not forgotten.

Their poetry breaths
through the cracks in the land,
and whispers
through the night.
In cavernous darkness
they shine brightest
darkness their secret home,
and shadow their bed of dreams.

Long ago there was one
of golden fire
as the midday sun.
A child at play
whose laughter gave birth to stars.

A fire at the heart
of all trinities,
whose love song
mended duality.
The seasons his story
and night his love,
duality shattered
in his mirrors of innocence.

Playing the song
on the lyre of fire,
he whispers
through the blinding light.
For she his mother,
a son of undying love.
For she his daughter,
all care and shelter.
For she his wife,
a fire through death and life.

Long ago their were two,
the rose and flame of summer.
As Mother Eire
and her lover true,
the seasons their bridge
across forever.

She carried him across
the waters of the west,
through the scarlet of twilight ,
and whispered as he lay to rest.

“Sleep beneath these apple trees,
a fire in the head,
dream of all
that the world could be,
through the season that lays ahead.
May all the world again remember,
a rekindled flame,
relit from an ember.
A love story that lives
within each heart
that time nor death
can ever part.”