Whispered Lullabies

I feel them blowing through the quiet.
The specters of my past breeze by
And bring a hint of long-gone days.
Caught between two worlds,
To taste the truth I must observe
These phantoms of my holy history.

Knotted crosses kiss the sky and
Long grasses grow wild among
The rocks that pile beneath the sun.
The bagpipe mourns its song in
Wisps and cries that echo in the
Field in which I stand.

And I am reeling like these ghosts
Between the crags, my cries are echoing
The mournful pipes this day.
The whispers in the field I must obey
For it is I who knows the secrets trapped
In piled stones and crumbled names.

And who is it that speaks my past to me,
With lilting brogue and blue-eyed gaze?
Whose haunting whispers rustle prairies near
My feet? And who am I to hear their tales
And pass them round the peat?

The sun beats down as all the spirits rise
To meet their newest sister in the deep.
And I give way to echoes of the past as
They sing lullabies to bid her sleep.
And they sing lullabies to measure out our sleep.