Whisper a soft prayer as you pass, friend,
for there is a spirit here.
The days and nights relentlessly come and go,
as do the endless seasons.

Men rise and fall, each in their turn,
like the withered grasses,
sheltered for a brief span by my lichened walls,
sleeping in my shadow-ridden depths.

For old am I,
so very old.

The northern winds blow ceaselessly
over my cold, weathering stones,
for the hearth-fires of the Cruithne
are long since turned to ash.