A Drawing of the Cycles of the Oran Mor.

As I harken to the Oran Mor, impereceptibly at the edges, the notes of that Great Song sour,  melodies as threadbare as my dress. These old bones tingle and pop. Thousands of sun cycles have passed since the Children of Danu drove the Children of Domnu into darkness at the end of the Second Battle of Moytura. On that Plain of Towers, the Tuatha's victory over the Fomorians promised a world of seeming infinite growth to those who took the world from the Tuatha.  Humans alone rule this long arc of the Song, but the third, and final crescendo of this age hastens.  Battle defined the last Triune, while Scholarship ruled the first.  I see a new plane of towers in a faraway land.  Towers of metal and glass clumped on the land like a forest.  The Tuatha and even the Sidhe return to the Green World, and a battle looms.  What force will dominate the Third Triune?  Will it be another Age of Creation or an Age of Destruction?  This I cannot tell.  I can only hear the shreiking discord in the crescendo and know the Green World will never be the same.