My blood sometimes whispers
the secrets of ancestral lands
my unconscious mass memory
of the works of many hands
Of a place both green and grey
where there runs a restless sea
three old women sit near a fire
while they weave my destiny
Steadfast, united, eternal
all those who are my kin
our arms are drawn for battle
and our cries still paint the wind
A man whose eyes spark hate
when you see him in the street
has surely striven against you
and remembers his defeat
I have three gifts from long ago
I can see what I don't yet know
I can hear what happened before
my foot travels across your door
I can distinguish rich and poor
I invoke this ancient lore
when I need to reach
beyond my yore