There’s a hum on the shore where the world burned out, The gulls don’t cry, they just circle in doubt. Bealtaine’s fire on the edge of the sea, And the signal keeps calling — it’s calling to me. Heard it once on a broken line, A ghost voice bleeding through the brine — Said, “Stars are falling, the gates are wide, Over Loughcrew, the gods collide.” Radio Loughcrew, can you hear me now? Through the shimmer and the sacred sound. They’re singing from the other side, And the Tuatha ride — the Tuatha ride. Smoke on the tide and the sky runs thin, The old gods laughing where the world’s been skinned. Belfast lights flicker, Dublin sleeps, And the songs drift out from the underwater keeps. Every station hums that tune, Like church bells under a blood-red moon. Can’t turn it off, can’t tune it out, The fair folk whisper, “Don’t look out.” Radio Loughcrew, can you hear me now? Through the shimmer and the sacred sound. They’re singing from the other side, And the Tuatha ride — the Tuatha ride. Static in my veins, I see the dome ignite, Gold fire on the horizon light. If you fade inside that glow, Tell me what the songs still know. Radio Loughcrew, fade to white, Sing us home through the endless night. The stars fall down, the gates swing wide, And the Tuatha ride — the Tuatha ride.
