Coronach Poem by Leslie Philibert
Coronach
Gather the crowberries for this windfeast.
Adorning our cheeks with ochre
we pile together a throne of old rowan.
The staggards behind us;
with warm breath at out napes.
We are as careful as a circle.
So a keening for the wild flightsman,
the hewer of stone, blood-iron hearted,
now dead as a distant star
that points the way of smoke, of fire.
But for the moment the wind resides.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 12:34:01 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Interesting wording, vague until the final line, then it came together. Thank you for sharing. RoseAnn