“The ancestors whisper,
Thru the leaves.
Disguising themselves as trees.
Slowly pass so many,
Flow with the water in your roots.
Remember the music of the Celtic flute.
Long ago in the countryside.
When you ran a horse far,
And an Angel’s face.
The trees softly whisper,
“Remember your place.”
The ancestors whisper thru the leaves.
Written by Lucia Sullivan copyright 2019 all rights reserved