I call to Tuireann, son of Ogma the wordsmith
and Etan of the clever hands, voice of the storm,
lover of the good green land, sire of the three sons
brave and strong, who slew the father of the Long-armed One,
who paid their debt of blood with deeds bold and daring,
who breathed their last on the fair hills of Lochlainn.
O Tuireann of Danu’s folk, Tuireann whose stories
are lost, long gone, all but the tale of your sorrow,
the tale that told of the end of your line,
you know of the worth and the weight of kin and clan,
you know of the greatest of grief. I honor you,
O god of ancient name, I offer you my praise.

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