I have no land to call my home,
no culture of great inheritance,
and wandering thus, have I found my own.
The ancestors who speak to me,
are true, and noble, and free.
Their strength is the wisdom of the land.
In the trees, rocks and soil,
in every blade of grass.
Their blood once shed,
still seeds the land.
Stories, once told – the legends of old,
are carried now, their voices on the wind.
By the firelight I see their shadows,
and feel the bearing weight
of their calm and certain presence.
They are of the old ways, of ancient Irish blood.
They have spoken, and I, young, but not unaware,
And so, I now walk
with strength that comes
from a deep inner knowing,
a strength that is of the land,
and of the heart;
of courage, strength, and grace.
There is nowhere I go,
these ancestral spirits will not be.
They know that I know.
They know that I see.
And with their blood in my soul,
and their blessing upon my grave,
I shall awaken each day
and go forth, renewed and seeking.
Born again, I live for them;
breathe for them, fight for them.
And when the night
shall at long last fall,
then, will I lay this body down
and be thus blessed,
in the wisdom and purity
that is the legacy
of their undying grace.