Air

I feel the breeze creasing my skin,

Great Paralda in cyclones eye I seek thee in.

Changing mountains with thy breath,

Knowledge do you grant upon death.

All Wise Eagle, of the east,

Your words of wisdom bring us peace.

Singing high and swaying low,

Granting awareness as ye blow.

Zephyrs floating in the sky,

Early summer breezes never passes us by.

As we sing the sacred chants,

The magic of the wind to us do you grant.

By: Lord Gwydion Lyonesse


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