They call themselves druids,
invoking quarters,
quoting from paper
words never spoken,
untouched by the voice
or the sound of the wheel;
carrying crystals,
buying dead branches
to wave in the air
like the legs of dead things.

See how they tear
at each other's throats!
The truth of the innocent
in neither hunter nor prey.
Blood spills on the earth
and remains but a stain.

How do I give
myself up to the awen?
Do I make peace
among those who are kings?
Can I give names
to the birds of Rhiannon,
or follow her son
through the branches while blind?

Can I play upon
the harp of the Dagda,
and sing for the ladies
in Aranrhod's caer?
Have I ever swam
in the weir of the crane-leg,
or sipped from the cup
of Tegid Foel's wife?

Do I know whence
the song from my lips
or the taste of a lie
or the truth on my tongue?
Have I stood upon the threshold that severs,
watching my breath
and the mist become one?

How can I not flee
from the name I would call myself?
Let the druids awaken from stones!

©1997, M. Bruno