Through the mists we ran,
sunbeams cast in vapour
the spears of Lugh
cast in war before us.

Massed ranks of Foe
a spider-web weak contrivance
and we; secure in knowing
we'll redden their earth ruts.

A thousand battles balanced
on sword's edge
and on point of honour
we laugh at what ruddy spears targets
we make.

Skyclad and infernal
our nostrils flaring
with harsh drawn breath a trumpeting
and the ground consumed by our stride.

The power of mate vigour
is an icon
with which to clasp in hand
and crush the opposer.

Graveless we are,
for through all time we charge
our thousand-eyed horde
forever strong.

To weave a tale
for future years
in blood singing
of iron against iron.

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