The Celtic Song

The ridges of his palms

Spoke the names of the trees

His tarnished hazel eyes

Wrinkled at the crease.

His bleeding heart had long since

Turned to soldid stone

As he ventured into shadows

In a hollow bark he called home.

Train to train, venturing

Back again, and twice

His name was carved in pinewood

Nibbled on by hungry mice.

The leaves rustled around

In his weary mind

In expanses of loose land

He felt oddly confined.

Now he lives upon a mountain

Hight above the raging sea

Timeless, yet not forgotten

Lies the chiselled pinewood tree.

fog

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