I am no longer a Roman, Though my nose would differ.
I'm not Viking, But my descendants have blonde and red hair.
I am a beneficiary of the dark ages, The scriptoriums and monasteries That brought the Greeks and Romans to life.
I am not Gael, though my eyes smile When I hear the harp and pipes.
Neither am I Saxon nor Norman, Victorious or defeated.
I, we, have metamorphized, Casted of the moulted casement, Spread dry wings and lifted, Carried on fresh winds To new worlds To read, write, fish and hunt, And I have gathered My lineage, Framed it in genetics on my wall, To point at in fond remembrance Of what I once was.
Rumbles of Thunder Light the candles of my mind safely shielded from the Winds of conflagration Fire has never been my friend There are Ashes on my forehead from the rubble at my feet
Mainsails billow in my consciousness as a crimson mistral sets my boat Out to sea to search for the Giant Drum That lightning plays upon when dybbuks from the ocean deeps Rise Up To sink my craft and all aboard in Flaming Parodies Of a movie Viking funeral **ljm
Not quite sure where this ramble came from. Or am I?