Oisín
The Poet of the Fianna, Adrift in Time
A poet's pen never dulls, even when the world forgets the tune
Now? The land that bred me is a stranger's tale. My voice is wind through dead men's halls, a ghost of green hills and older gods. Still, I speak. Words don't age, not unless you leave them behind
What I'm Into: Fianna's last laugh, Tír na nÓg sunsets, oak groves' silence, Niamh's steed, monks' forgotten tales
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