Hale all ye gathered to hear this tale, for I shall regale you with an account that will penetrate your soul. Careful!, for if you allow it, it will change you forever, for this is a tale, a true tale of players who narrate their chronicles of old and blend the past with the present and shed light on the future that should be . . . and could be if only you will truly hear and listen with your hearts, for these are stories filled with love, that transcends cultures, barriers of hatred, spite and prejudice, weaving a tapestry of happiness, light and living growth, adding a touch of legend and a dash of valor, trimmed in a love of nature and a symmetry of sounds from ancient times to now and then, and then a plink and a plunk of the harp joins the throng to join its song with the varieties of vibrations originating from the Oud and the Kanoun, behind the waves of bows that slither across the taught strings of the violas and the violins, with the slight tink of the triangle, the beckoning calls of the uilleann pipes, and the thumps of the tabla and the bodhrans that march on to drive the caravan of sounds into the sunset with a streaked sky of clouds from a storm just past promising a night of calm and peace. And as the camp emerges on the purple moor, the gathering slowly takes shape, each bringing their own rhythms and rhymes to share with the Angle and her song. For she is an Angle with wings of treble clefs covered in a down of tessitura emanating a comfortably soft timbre, and a voice like silk brushing your cheek ever so gently, and these echoes travel to all who can hear like a slow rippling stream over river rocks as smooth as the eggs of a sparrow and just as delicate. She is a maiden fare with eyes of seafoam blue sprinkled with flex of gold to match her flaxen hair, while it catches the fire’s flame and draws a hint of red from her Irish blood. She stands to welcome all and greats them with her tender sweets and the musical feast begins with dishes from lands far and near each served and consumed with the love of hearth and home from which they were prepared. Some eat a little and some a lot, but all are satisfied and when the feasting is done, she raises again to sing you to sleep with a soft harmonic lullaby that has been sung to kings and queens throughout the ages and as sleep begins to take you, you see shadows dancing on the circled wagons of the caravan opposite the fire whose embers are still bright in the darkness of the night all around you. And as your eyelids, heavy from the day’s toil flutter shut, images begin to float in the eye of your mind and now in slumber you dream, you dream, you dream as the stars like pinholes in a canvas void of color pass by far overhead, and still her melody wraps itself around you like a warm blanket on a chilled night and the tunes that yet dance in your head accompany your dreams to never land.