Three things are there to be a people;
three destinies, three duties:
to take away,
to make a way,
to give way.

We were not the first in the land,
we will not be the last;
the land that nourishes the young
and embraces the dead,
bathing our wounds with her tears,
with her light tempering lives,
singing through birdsong,
dancing in starlight --
the mother of beauty in each age
of her children.

We stood on the land with both feet,
with two eyes we beheld it;
our arms swept clear the way
and built our homes in high places.
The cycle of time swept by
under the filling and unfilling cauldron;
our father kept watch from above,
turning, returning with promises kept
and loving our mother warmly.
Great were the children of such parents;
gods, we were, and children of gods;
kings to a queen hale and green.
We built our palaces and lived our lives
until the day the new one came.

He planted his foot and sang
and our wise ones passed away.
He promised justice and peace,
the justice of fate, the peace of the barrow.
Nine times he passed,
nine times he conquered
and gods we were no more;
our druids became his.
We dwelt among the ancestors
and became them.

Shall we mourn, then? No.
The mother is always the mother;
the child is always the father's seed.
We watch our enemy become our family
as the new one becomes old, himself,
and steps closer to the barrow,
the womb, to be reborn,
when next a new one plants his foot
and sings of endings and births.

Three blessings we bestow upon those who follow:
that they remember,
that they live in their day,
that they accept the coming of the new one.

For to mourn what is past is to seek snow in spring;
to rage over the past is to not feel the sun,
to live in the past is to be a not-people.

Three things are there to be a people;
three destinies, three duties:
to take away,
to make a way,
to give way.

To the Sons of Mil we chose to give way,
yet we remain the people.