Deep in the pinewoods, the girls perform dances,
Echoing the sounds of water over stones
And the sound of wind through the branches.
This is no white band of water nymphs, nor fauns
Of Diana, which the woodlands worship,
But country girls from Cuenca, honouring that fell
At whose foot two rivers kiss, their moist lips
Kissing also the pale soles of the girls' feet
As they weave their happy dances and meet,
Clasping white hands together in friendship,
Perhaps fearing that dancing apart might defeat it.
Lovely poem, Tom. All it lacks is a good picture of those Highland Girls!
I'm useless with pictures. So you'll just have to use your imagination., Kim. Sorry. Some can be supplied in a plain envelope!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You have well captured both the rhythmic turning of a festival dance and the spirit of the woodlands themselves in this fair piece. A delight to read and imagine. Especially in the grey of December. :)