Every day I reach to find the tumbling words of Imbass within my fickle mind.
But the day before twas burning bright, yet now the flame is dim beyond my sight.
I stumble and misread, the embers that are reluctant to rise unto my most desperate need.
Far I search for flint and steel, the broken light within to tend and heal.
But Imbass comes not at my behest, nor at the end of a long and fruitless quest. Rather rises the flame only at the lady’s bequest.
I bide the days by oak, circle and tide, I wander wither I am bid. Perchance upon a day to find the high house whither the copper cauldron of endless inspiration be hid and thus to at last bind, for once and all, my fickle mind.