My blood runs, thick as stones
Gathering round that place where
souls scream at the rising sun
Where life meets death
in heart wrenching communion
twisted into unwilling submission
Life is like the mighty oak and we are no more than leaves. We are born and, when the time comes, we must whither and fall, nourishing the buds to come and making room on those branches for new growth, new life. Our own tenuous vibrancy faded, we bow and retreat to the vigor of youth, knowing our place as we do. Even now as we are still hale and vibrant, we have accepted that this is the way of it. We will do our duty and turn to dust, and we can only hope that we can do it with grace and dignity, leaving those who are left behind without guilt and with as little pain as possible.
We are Celts, and so we continue the tradition of the Celtic Cross, the Tree of Life. The four seasons branching out from the central circle, representing the sun, the all embracing light. We go in death as in life, through the cycles of life, seasons and generations all springing from that central core. All returning to it at the end of our days.
