All roads lead to Hampshire
and the black forest looms ahead;
the vaulted canopies arch
and birds twitter like pensioners -
all is calm and serene at dusk.
As the moon rises I hold it
in my hands: cupping it softly
and drinking of its milky sweetness.
The eagle spreads its wings
and cries to the godess of the wood -
Hampshire, hampshire, hampshire!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.