I call to Cliodhna of the Fortunate Isles,
daughter of the Danann, fair-haired Cliodhna
of the three bright birds that ate from the apple-tree,
their song a salve to any wound, any ill.
Pretty lovers you took, O goddess, mortal men
lured by your wondrous and terrible beauty,
yet ever did you return to the Land of the Young.
Cliodhna of the stony cairn, whose voice rang out
over hill and glen, a shriek to still the heart;
chief of the mound-women, chief of the mourners
of great men. Cliodhna of many guises,
I honor your story, I honor your name.