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Post by marcodubnos on Jun 21, 2006 18:42:31 GMT -1
Dian Cecht's Meditations on Miach's Grave
Five, threescore and three hundred thriving herbs Grow green upon the grave of Miach, my son! From top to toe, each tallying that part Of man, where each most makes its mark. See how, even in death, he dares instruct me! And Airmid has arrayed them on her cloak To con their correspondences, and keep in mind That lore that in a lifetime I'd not learned. It is not fit that all the full world know The secrets of all saving salves and potions; Too few would die, and folk would fill the earth: Burdensome, a bane for breathing things. In work and worth we'd weaken, and become A feeble folk, whose only force is number, Multiplying like mice. This must not be. Their pattern I will change, their properties confuse... If Airmid remembers right, she's learned; But not one soul shall steal what they've not earned.
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Post by Blackbird on Jun 22, 2006 7:37:05 GMT -1
That brings back memories of a good rite
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Post by Midori on Jun 27, 2006 20:23:49 GMT -1
Yes, it would be good to see that ritual again.
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