Night falls on Emain Macha; air drawn tight.
In the royal house, Deichtine labors under watchful eyes.
A star burns overhead; whispers say Lugh attends.
Firelight and cold water seal rites; vows braid his fate.
The child Sétanta—destined to be Cú Chulainn.
The prophecy is stark, in Old Irish verse: brief life, endless glory.
Around him, Ulster’s earthwork seat binds law and oath.
From this cradle of kings, legend rises—and Ireland remembers.