Druid Child written in the milk of Oimelc's ink

Let bars of Iron not bind its mind to be another Man Cow.

Or touch the burning brand of Adam to its Shining Brow
.
So few are born like it with the Third Eye.

Goddesses Ceridwen's special gift, the Awen of Why.

Be it born a She or He the Druid Soul carieth not a Jot.

For it is not the sex that has cast this special child"s sacred Lot.

But in its Blood there is an invisible third stand of cosmic DNA.

The Ancient Oak's hidden Gift to the Druid's Soul Way.

And with it, a Child is born in the knowledge of the Ley.

This rare blood carries special kinship to all that's wild or pagus still alive Today.

To it Awen flows down from the ancient and sacred Oak that Groves.

Only in the far off lost lands of the Fae.

Where they guard its ancient life each Night to Day.

Through all five seasons of the mystic Dark and Light.

From those on Earth born to the ancient evil Way.

Yet still rule over man, even to this very modern Day.

Their goal to cut down this Ancient and sacred Oak.

And of its wood, finish Humanities final Yoke.

To gain ultimate power for them there is no other Way.

Still as long a Druid child is born and remembers ancient Ley.

A blind and lost Humanity will remain somewhat free for another Day.




If this tale rings deep in the well of mind for You.

Doubt not its flash of strange but sweet Awen.

As Goddess Ceridwen has blessed your tongue with just a drop or Two.

And she need not to give reference to old Men with Silk and Bordered Robes
.
That used the wood from our sacred Groves to feed the fires of their Roman Globes.


The Druid King

Copyrite George King February 22, 2013

The Biting of Pots

Oh how I hate the biting of pots as first my morning draws.

Consciousness holding on, only the barest of its tiny clawing paws

Head is pounding and water dripping from sore eyes.

Damn to think its not from a long night of riding oh so sweet thighs.

Oh how I hate the biting of pots.

Yet this is an honorable task that must be done by one kin.

As we have no slaves or bonded servants here at our very humble little Druid's inn.

Now loudly the pots speak ,to remind of tasty blessings, that last night were within.

And of the strange pleasures they offer of a secret Smithy’s Zen.

As one caresses their slick and sometimes shiny metal skin.

Still I know that even after a long night of soak.

That burn in food from cooking over the fire will be harder than an Oak.

Yet now at last this biting task by me must be done.

Before the blessing of clan's next meal is begun.

So now I bite into this wet and dripping  task.

Till each metal friend is clean and shining as if made of glass.

Our's  may be but a clan of very few.

Unless the Familiars and the Fae count as true.

Then there are the wild things from across the shallow woods.

That come to the inn each night to beg a crust of its sweet goods.

Even small and ever old, the clan does its best to run a good and honest inn.

Were the old Gods and Goddesses are always welcomed to descend.

And lift a horn with our Ancient Druids that are still their only true kin.

And when Night gives to Sun the biting of pots will surely start again.

The Druid King