In the youth of summer
The hills of Cualann
Are two golden horns,
Two breasts of childing,
Two tents of light
In the ancient winter
They are two rusted swords,
Two waves of darkness,
Two moons of ice.
In the youth of summer
The hills of Cualann
Are two golden horns,
Two breasts of childing,
Two tents of light
In the ancient winter
They are two rusted swords,
Two waves of darkness,
Two moons of ice.