(from the Welsh)
May they stumble, stage by stage
On an endless Pilgrimage
Dawn and dusk, mile after mile
At each and every step a stile
At each and every step withal
May they catch their feet and fall
At each and every fall they take
May a bone within them break
And may the bone that breaks within
Not be, for variations sake
Now rib, now thigh, now arm, now shin
but always, without fail, the NECK
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The great art of creative cursing is at a historic low point today, along with the art of original plaudits. American English now has only two curses in daily use, and not a single original word of praise. Robert Graves still keeps the light burning, and this is a very great poem indeed.