So what is truth and what is not?
In words, the evidence of loss,
Of spirits swirling round the peak:
The nameless souls who named the hills.
I heard the songs, I saw the dance,
I felt the heartbeat in the rock,
I saw the springs of pasts converge,
I formed Brythonic words again.
This place – where lapwings guard the skies,
And ravens roll about their throne –
Has stripped my language from its roots:
My English never climbed this far.
Relentless winds have scarred its name,
Across the passing clouds of time.
Your English soars for me!
Love the mysticism in your poetry, your words reach deep into one’s soul.
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