I sat upon the seashore
And inhaled deep the brine
My fingers flew across my harp
As I sang of love sublime
I looked out across the water
The fields of blue-green fire
Veined by snow-white foam and froth
And I whispered my desire
No man lays his claim to me
No boy owns my heart
No shepherd, goatherd, swineherd true
No blacksmith plays his part
My lover is the Ocean
I hear his thunderous roar
Devouring the grey, windswept strand
But bows down to the shore
My lover is the West Wind
With his haunting howl
A dragon to rage the nightly storms
A wolf out on the prowl
We belong to the Old Ways
Of faeries and elfin knights
Highland storms that bring the thunder
And many a wondrous sight
Our Ways have been forgotten
By holy friars and priests
But our blood runs hot with dragonfire
And we shall wake the beasts
My hands fly fierce across the harp
My heart pounds with delight
For with my harp, the Old Ways live
And rise once more this night
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem