Celtic

Mists rise from the ancient hills,
Where stone‑circles guard forgotten songs,
Bards whisper in a tongue that still
Sings of warriors, lovers, and throngs.

Heather‑clad moors wear emerald cloaks,
Rivers carve verses through glen and glade,
Harp strings hum like the wind’s soft jokes,
And the sea sighs legends that never fade.

From Gaelic fire to Breton tide,
Knots entwine like destiny’s own thread,
In every feast, in every stride,
The Celtic heart beats on, unsaid.

So let the lyre’s lament be heard,
Let the tartan’s pattern proudly gleam—
A timeless tapestry, a living word,
The soul of Celt, forever’s dream.