They left the churches before they fled
Their farms. Graves penned in to stop the dead

From wandering the old paths, souls alone
Snagging like wool in hedges. A lane

Is tradition. Parishes stand exposed
On empty hillsides, lost for the words

That were places of meeting, zinc-roofed halls
For singing and ceremony, for slow counsels

Held under isolating rain. Now witness the hearth’s
disintegartion:
A body in another language. Lust’s translation.

From Y Llofrudd Iaith (1999) translated by Mary-Ann Constantine with the author.

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