Aig an linne, fad nan linntean,
tha mi air mo bhòid a chumail — an stòr seo a ghlèidheadh.
Tha na faclan leam — ach 's e ur dùthchas iad.
Thigibh — tha sinn air feitheamh ribh.
By the pool, through the ages,
I have been keeping my vow — to guard this hoard.
The words are with me, but they are your inheritance.
Come — we've been waiting for you.
These words come from my pool — An Linne. Each one you draw out you make your own: a picture, a personal note. But a word is not yours yet, not from the drawing alone.
Each time you come back, I show you the words you have drawn. You tell me honestly — did you know it? Did you struggle? Was it instant? That is all I need.
If you knew it well, I give you more time before I show it again. If you went blank, I show it sooner. The gap between visits grows longer as the word takes root. First a day. Then a few days. Then weeks. That is the practice — not cramming, but returning. And the returning is what makes it hold.
When you can still recall a word after thirty days without being shown it — it becomes yours. Then it moves into An Stòr, your hoard.
Are you on a phone, or a computer? It makes a difference for the pictures.
The Ùruisg's Word Hoard
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