Little Celtic Warrior Girl

She stands alone in the face of the wind,
Counting her courage on the edge of the cliff,
Not to jump but to dream - dreaming of flying.
No time like the present. No time for the dying.

She lets the Winter wind ruffle her hair -
Those Auburn of curls that toss without care,
In this moment she is as happy as life will allow her to be,
As happy as a caged sparrow on the verge of being free.

She surveys the ocean with her eyes of The Storm,
And in the depths of their blue, a fire is born
But in her heart seethes, a great,unsure sorrow,
Whilst dreams and reality conflict for tomorrow.

But in The Wind she can hear one, single voice -
The voice of The Wind that rides above noise,
And in herself she knows she will find the strength,
To overcome death at any length.
For she is the Celtic Warrior with autumn flames for hair.
The eyes of a guardian. The face of a girl.

But mirror, mirror on the wall,
Why is this warrior girl all forlorn?
What is the thorn in her side?
And what is it she longs to hide?
What is it she seems to seek?
And who is it she longs to be?
For freedom shall come at too high a cost -
But without The Wind, her soul is lost.