We are the storytellers.
Tellers of fable,
of myth and legend,
of folk and epic tale.
We tell in song,
in prose and rhyme,
in gesture and mime.
We are the listeners,
ears to the ground.
Stories come writhing out of the bogs,
creep out of the mists,
pour out of the clouds in the rain,
flow down the rivers,
out to the sea,
then up to the clouds again.
We are the voices
of elders, enchanters,
of ancients, of heroes
and wee folk,
spanning the years from beginning of time.
We are the voices of desperate ones
who lived and died
seeking the justice, compassion,
they were denied.
We are the story seekers,
unseen travelers,
ghostly gliders through tangle of forest,
spectral scalers of castle turrets
and palace walls;
roaming the highways,
byways, seaways,
in search of story.
We are the scribes who keep these tales.
We are the tellers who give them wings.
We are sculptors of imag’ry,
shaping our words with chisels
of mind and lips and tongue.
We are artists,
painting on canvas of air
with brushwork of passion for story
the colours of life, of death,
of grief, of joy,
of pain, of love, of hope.
We are the listeners,
The voices,
The seekers,
The scribes,
The sculptors,
The artists.
We are the storytellers.