An old man, haunted by his past, decides to leave his cave and vindicate himself. Based on the Irish legend of Fiontán Mac Bóchra, the White Ancient.
The water, it flows, far above my head;
It sends light splintering around my cave.
I wait here, restless, in this sleepless bed;
They call it my grave, yet I am not dead,
Haunted by spirits that I could not save.
I offered a choice, to stay or to go,
To explore new lands or wait for the rain.
She, three-and-fifty, they leapt up to row
Far into the west, yet I could not know,
The fate that reigned there, the torture and pain.
The soil was fertile, green hills without end.
Blue skies and rivers, an island of life;
But too young for Man, a great wound was rend.
The land was torn up, and we could not mend,
And then rose the waves, and washed us in strife.
They offered a choice, to live or to die,
And stupidly I deigned to linger here.
They showed me their plans, and I wondered why,
They chose to save me, why they kept me dry;
Questions with answers that I’ve learned to fear.
The time, it flows, and submerges my head,
It sends pasts and futures around my cave.
I go now, restless, spent too long abed.
They call it my grave, I’ll never be dead,
Living for spirits that I may yet save.