To the hero, called to the Land
Of the Ever-Young, comes the Goddess,
Smiling, untouchable, offering
The jewelled and musical apple branch.
I turn to the East and sing to the sun,
Beloved light that marries darkness,
Each nurturing the other’s seed;
Let darkness turn light inward
To fertilize the womb.
Now for the fruits of the year,
The hidden harvest
When the lion’s claw
Draws blood in heaven’s name.
Now for the games,
The funeral games,
To hallow the furrows
With exultation’s fire.
Lightning, strike me,
Impale me on the sky,
Skill my hands
With tricky craft
To shape the world’s dreams.
When Lúgh arrives in Tara,
To claim his place among the Tuatha Dé Danann,
He announces:
“I am a poet from the Land of Apples,
Rich in swans and yews.”
Come, thunderstorms and rain!
Purge the air and refresh the earth,
That the sun’s fierce heat has seared
And withered with excess.
After fire, water:
Naked riders race their horses
Across the river, swimming them low
To stagger up clean
And shining on the far side.
The Janus head
Facing two ways
Stands on the hilltop
Where the people gather
To celebrate the god.
And the young men
Clash their staves
In sacred battle.
The chieftain, facing the rising sun,
Cuts the first sheaf with his sickle
Then holds it up to the heavens,
Turning three times deosil on his heels,
Chanting the paean.
Amid dancing and singing,
The Fairy Queen sits
On her stone throne, accepting
Flower garlands from the boys.
And at the hilltop fair
Poets recite their latest verses,
Musicians play and sing,
Craftsmen sell their handiwork.
I am a keen spear that pours forth battle:
Now is the turning,
The darkness regaining,
As the baleful Sun, jealous of lost power,
Rages, oppresses,
And must be checked.
Whoever holds the burning spear
Holds the joy of victory;
Lúgh of the Long Arm
Launches his thunderbolt
Into the sky’s heart.
See, the moon is waxing,
And, coming from afar,
The menacing shape
Of the Spear, whose target
Is your heart, my heart.
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