Animus, poetry from the veil

Celtic Dreams

I am haunted by the Druids of my past,
by Celtic ghosts enamored of my soul,
who seek to call me home to haunted glens,
to bury me within their sacred knoll.

The Irish in my blood can feel the dark,
in verdant forms that dance beyond the light,
when moonlit shadows creep and crawl
into the valleys of eternal night.

Three times I heard the Banshee wail,
three days to let my soul prepare,
to follow then the psychopomp unveiled
and climb at last that gold empyrean stair.

At last, the Irish in my blood subsides
as archangelic havoc screams aloud,
then disappears into silentious night
beneath life's sorrow-burdened shroud.

The dawn brings hope
in life renewed once more,
and ghosts are beaten back when I awake,
as centuries of guilt are in that instant shed,
and I continue living for their sake.