Ireland's Enigmatic Watchers

From shadowed glens, where legends sleep, Three figures rise, secrets to keep. The Morrigan, a raven's wing, Drawn to the clash, the death-song sang. Of war, of fate, a chilling hand, To claim the fallen, rule the land. She shifts and weaves, a queen of might, Her sovereignty in the darkest night. The Banshee wails, a mournful cry, A prophecy beneath the sky. For family's blood, a thread undone, Her keening echoes, day is done. A spirit bound to mortal ties, Her sorrow paints the weeping skies. The Pooka runs, a shifting shade, A trickster's jest, a game is played. A horse of ebony, swift and bold, He leads astray, tales to be told. A playful spirit, wild and free, He dances on the edge of glee. From ancient roots, their power springs, The Morrigan, the Banshee, Pooka brings, A touch of magic, old and deep, Where shadows stir and secrets sleep. Guardians of lore, through misty air, Whispers of Ireland.