Into the heat of noon,
A midsummer melting molten gold,
Precious flowers in a field of parched long grass,
I danced.

This was my fashioning-day,
When wands and wills gathered up the wild
And crushed the unknown and unfelt to a beautiful form,
I feared.

Beauty stained with force,
Marked with doom’s ominous woading,
For the sake of usurping a mother’s grieved and just desire,
I fell.

Petals plucked one by one,
Like a harvest of false hope and hidden anger,
Nature fell trapped and tangled into a body of mortal mud,
I died.

Death to the rising sun of joy,
Birth into a confinement of strange custom and feat,
Death and birth in one burst of awareness as
I became maiden.

Into the loss of world,
A confusion at the new senses of limitation,
Heart became choked, voice became lost to the barren land within,
I dwelt.

Who now remembers my beginning?
Who now reflects upon my baneful birth?
If you question the owl in the yew tree,
You will find the answer in the seed three.
Actions set into motion feed upon actions.
If you question what happened on Gwyl Canol Gaeaf,
Then look to the day when life un-naturally became a wife.

Reflection,
As I sit by the ebbing surface,
The road carried on my back,
The day cradled in my arms.

Reflection,
As I stride in the foaming sea-sighs,
The wind painted with bright jewels,
The world arrayed in yearning.

Heart sinks into the tide,
A peace lost into life.
Head swirls into the sands,
A sleep filled with expectation.

yng gymraeg (tipyn wahanol i’r cerdd yn saesneg… cyn i mi ddysgu’r iaith, a deud y gwir! mi wnes i sgwennu hwn efo’r geiriadur ac fy nghalon!):

Y llanw suddo i mewn fy nghalon,
Perl wedi golchi mewn amser.
Y tywod chwyldroi i fy mhen,
Tân losgi a haul-mwg.

Myfyrdod,
Cyn i’n eistedd wrth y wyneb yn treio,
Y ffordd cario ar fy olwr,
Y dydd fel crud yn fy mreichiau.

Adlewyrchiad,
Cyn i’n camu ar y môr-ocheneidiau ewynnu,
Y gwynt yn peintio efo gemau llachar,
Y byd yn gwisgo efo hiraeth.

Calon suddo ar y llanw,
Hedd ar goll mewn fywyd.
Pen yn chwyldroi i mewn y tywod,
Cwsg yn llenwi efo dymuniad.

Return to me, my kinsmen,
with your tongue of dewey hills,
with your words as flowing swells.

Return to free, my kinsmen,
for memory trickles deep,
a well of desire within,
forgotten fallows sleep,
a wish and sorrow again.

Long have I flown the mountains,
outcast, spying, edged in night’s cloak.
Long have I mourned the dawning,
forced to murder, a wandering brigand.

Wild wills cannot bar out the stars,
those fiery pikes out of the velvet expanse,
these I follow, Arianrhod’s web-trance.

Flowers I once was, dancing and sweet,
Cheerful smiles under the summer heat.
But your wrath and honour wilted my youth,
Eager to judge, blot out the heart’s truth.

Smitten by my people,
a brutal whip, your tripping tongues,
“What more can you expect of flowers?”
“Unfaithfulness, aye, no more”

Stripped of my beauty,
you mock this poor owl-form,
a shadow forlorn,
a penance outworn.

Can you continue to shut
your ears like a door to my cries?
Can you contine to strut
your fears like feathers, though they’re lies?

Listen to my shrieks in the dark.
They will remind you of the stark
meaning of the word “unfaithful”.

By the curse you placed on me,
for following my heart’s plea,
so you, out of hate, not love,
cast the dye upon your hands.

I was faithful to love,
and for love, you cast me aside,
like scythed grass to be turned,
like winter peat to be burned.

Yet who was faithful to me?
O kinsmen, who now can judge?
Your judgement reads your guilt.
No one was faithful to me.

Long have I sought for shelter,
trembling, weary, robed in bitter’s cold.
Long have I sent for succor,
bending my maiden pride to life’s winter.

Return to me, my kinsmen,
for I have suffered inhuman soul-blight,
shards sharp like my talons and sight.

Return to free, my kinsmen,
know me as part of your heart,
and for that, I always remain,
haunting and hunting that part
of you that is me, our pain.