Wise and gentle Airmed, whose art it is
to know the green things of the world, root and leaf,
stem and seed, to tend them with care, to work the soil
from which they draw their might; you hear each voice
of flower and weed, they speak to you of life and death,
of healing and of harm. Airmed, mender of men,
daughter of skillful Dian Cecht, whose wrath was borne
by your dear brother, you know the pain of a heart
torn by grief, you know the good of tears freely shed.
Airmed, beloved goddess, yours are the tonics
and balms that arise from the earth, yours the remedies
that ease body and spirit. Airmed, I call to you.