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Badb at Samhain - Guardian of Death
Image source Memories in dirt trod places
An ache of something soul wired
Screeching across field and foe
The rankling of oppressive chains
Ripped and charred
Once a story learned by rote
No longer spoken but on the wind
Only the memories we carry
Claws in the darkness, teeth biting,
Burn it all to ash and starch the bones
Sing to them, sing for them, bleed into them,
All those forgotten souls, honourable, wise, less so
Death is not a quiet whisper
A story is not
