Keepers of the Earth

Will ancient stones still sleep beneath the Glen of Roe? Where the winter

mist rolls heavy and the haunted waters flow. We walk the winding,

crooked line where the veil between is thin. And the wind remembers whispers

of the sorrow held within. You can hear the bain sigh their calling

when a death is drawing near. But she weeps for lost clan Glen,

whom the grey hills hold so dear. Keepers of the Earth.

We are born of the mist and the stone, of the dark and the salt-white

foam. The old paths they call us home to the earth