By Nic an Dair, 2016

The haze and ash of the battlefield hear
Your crying and weeping, Inventress of Keening.
The dying embers contain the inner light of life.
The water in Your tears fill the Cauldron of Rebirth.
The woolen threads of Your dark green mantle surround Your son and those who have been lost.
Your cloak consoles and shields those left behind, as You were, O Lady.
Out of sorrow, out of grief, come the transforming sparks of creativity and hope.
One side of Your face is comely, the serene Queen.
The other is twisted hideously from Your anguish.
In it is its own beauty, my Lady of Sacred Grief.
Your words echo the names of legends and heroes, great and small, the renowned and the seemingly insignificant.
O Healer, You know the pain of life, the birthing pangs necessary for its endurance.
O Smith, You stir the embers of Your forge, each glint a life.
O Poetess, the histories and melodies are Yours to retell for those willing to hear.
Mourning Mother, Your winter slumber holds infinite creation and possibility.