The Sidhe haunt still, slyly peering from behind ancient memory that tugs at hearts and stirs celtic blood. See them, behind the cold capstones of the gallery tombs. Hear them laughing in grey stone rooms that stand chilled, long emptied of the warmth of human spirit. Even after centuries of sore abuse, the Sidhe run strong. The winds blow wickedly against the Saxons who still believe they can tame through oppression what even the fierce Romans dared not try. The power of mystery and magic remain. Swirls of She are everywhere, carved in rock, pushed upright to circles of stone. Now, She stands in grottos, or by holy wells, dressed in blue. She cradles the babe whom many insisted she sacrifice her divinity to. Oh, Mary; Oh, Mother. Bombs burst in Londontown, flashing Your face with fury and pain. Crosses bear witness to the silencing by the sword. The symbol of death overpowers those of life. Men who suckled at your breasts grow lost. They grope with a yearning in their hearts for the elusive peace that once was theirs in the sweetness of mothers' milk. They hunger for their souls, so starved, they kill, to feed the emptiness. *Sidhe (she), the spirits, the children of Dannan © 1996 Kelley Rouse. All Rights Reserved. Kelley Table of Contents "Be with us, then!"