Sitting and typing as the slow trickle cascades against the pale cast rim,
I ask what's after bringing me here.
Before we leave I wonder is it worth it;
then realising it always is.
No matter the grand or luxury of the night before,
my people are worth more.
Their presence is a force within each and every one of our inherent Gaelic being that cannot be quantified.
Here's to that.

In my dream the other night,
I first heard a panicked mot's voice:

"Is me, mo ghile mear!
Cathain a thoicfaidh tú abhaile chugam?"

When light then entered my eyes,
I saw a young woman hunched o'er a table

She writing, quill in hand, to her man.
Like a ghost I hovered o'er her.

I saw the year, 1745
The year of the Jacobite.

I blinked my eyes
And my world went black.

Once opened again, I saw that time had passed
And a tear-stained letter lay on the desk.

Mo leannán fionn, the letter read
Tá me i ndeoraíocht.
Is ár bprionsa caillte.
A stór, mo ghrá thú, ach
Níl riamh feicfidh mé tu arís.

When I awoke that morn,
The ghosts of the lovers haunted me.

I pitied that mot, who lost her love forever to exile
I pitied that cove, exiled from his love forever.

Though only shades, their story
Is from the dawn of time.