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.
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.
