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Remembering the dead: Oíche Shamhna


Notes

The dead speak through the moans of the wind. Through carrion birds and cold earth. Blood is their drink, flesh their bread. Frost on grass, where they walk.

"Siúlaigí a chairde, siúlaidh liom
Mar cheo an tsléibhe uaine ag
Imeacht go deo
D'ainneoin ár dtuirse leanfam an tslí
Thar chnoic is thar ghleannta
Go deireadh na scríbi
Seo libh a chairde is canaidh liom
Líonaigí'n oíche le greann is le spórt
Seo sláinte na gcarad atá imithe uainn
Mar cheo an tsléibhe uaine,
Iad imithe go deo"


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