Celtic Legend by Eliza Witte - HTML preview
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Flight
Mountains – gray and old as the land.
Their foreheads are furrowed. Time Crosses them, leaving the sign Of each moment on their wrinkles’ length And clouds, tempting the poet Who builds castles of air.
Cyclops – an open blue eye of a lake.
The wind hits their cheeks,
Wild paths conquer their peaks, And rivers’ run cuts their veins.
And clouds tempting the poet
Who shares a secret of theirs.
Savageness, broad plane and freedom Determine the eagle wing’s rhythm To its marvellous flight to the clouds.
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Summer (The Last Horizon) Boundlessness, silence, irresistible blue The sun was bathing waves golden...
A scream of free, wild dolphins Became one with the summertime blues!
A dreamer sitting, the warmth of the sands, A mood brought by the wind’s evening tales, And a feeling, daring, like a herring gull’s wail Gave birth to the fire of the red sunset’s dance.
From the depths, a hidden desire was rising.
It would reach the rays of the sundown today, And defeating times, distance and pain, It would start home touching the last horizon.
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