Sie werden sicher mit mir einverstanden sein, wenn ich sage: Steine sind tot.

Sie schweigen still vor sich hin.

Under drifting mist where ancient mesas stand, The Callanish circle guards the wind-swept land.

Stones speak in shadows, listening to the tide, Old songs of drums and stars kept deep inside.

The moor breathes softly, secrets in the stone, A compass carved in granite, old as bone.

The Callanish Stones, keepers of ring and time

We wander through deep rhythms, hear your ancient chime

Beneath the stars’ eternal light,

They whisper truth into the night.

Through ancient stone and silver air,

They guard the dreams we do not dare.

Ritual Place

Celtic space

We dance around the ring

We intend to start to sing

Moonlight blesses runes that burn with quiet fire,

A chorus etched in silence, lifting us higher.

If these rocks could dream, they’d dream of future rain,

Of pilgrim footsteps walking through the plain.

The Callanish Stones, keepers of ring and time

We wander through deep rhythms, hear your ancient chime

Beneath the stars’ eternal light,

They whisper truth into the night.

Through ancient stone and silver air,

They guard the dreams we do not dare.

Ritual Place

Celtic space

We dance around the ring

We intend to start to sing

Ritual Place

Celtic space

We dance around the ring

We intend to start to sing