The drums roll,
a patron spirit glides past a frosty forest.
At a dash underneath,
spit lakes, flowers and swarms of snowfall birds.
we hear a echo folding the night,
the chambers of towers ring.
Loud bells moan,
going astir in the wind.
Dying dirt in mure,
Sinks to the deep abyss,
a mantle piece falls all sound stops,
and the huntsman rests.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Jordy. This such a good poem. A tension is built, and there is an immanent presence within the story and a tense mood is created so strong and direct in just a few lines! Great.. I like it a great deal.How about a few more when the mood grabs you? Cheers and keep writing. Geoffrey.