The Island of Singing Birds by Danuta Mayer from my Celtic Book of the Dead, is one of the island that is encounter by Maelduin and his crew on their great voyage.
All the prayers that were ever in my head Clapped their wings like birds, Away they fled. And there was left only the unspoken prayer Hanging in the falling rain Like a spiral stairway leading everywhere. An opening into perpetual singing Where words were coloured music, Fragrant light, Where all the world was bringing itself to a crest That was ecstatic silence, Dancing rest. The branches of my brain became a tree Whereon birds Roosted trustfully, A chantry-house perpetually calling The twilight hours Of every prayer. In that enchanted hour there was only power, Soundless, indivisible, Shimmering under the wings of my heart, And I was part of all that had ever been Or would ever be, In the prayer that was praying me.
I will be back soon, but please bear with me.
Just wonderful !!! I got shivers reading this.
Heavenly…thank you.