Seven hundred and thirty years ago on the 11th day of December...
Where is Llywelyn? Ble mae o?
He was due back eight nights ago.
The low sun creeps across the sky
And still I wait. He cannot die.
Without him, Wales might cease to be!
Ble mae Llywelyn? Where is he?
Where is Llywelyn? Ble mae o?
With banners bright we saw him go.
His scarlet lions shone in the sun—
I know this war can still be won—
and Cymru still can flourish, free!
Ble mae Llywelyn? Where is he?
Where is Llywelyn? Ble mae o?
I watch and wait; my worries grow,
But from the south I get no news.
The English king cannot refuse
To make peace soon, and then we’ll see…
Ble mae Llywelyn? Where is he?
Where is Llywelyn? Ble mae o?
Gwenllian fach, I do not know.
I wish that I could hold you tight.
I walk the battlements each night.
The sunrise lights no hope in me.
Ble mae Llywelyn? Where is he?
Where is Llywelyn? Ble mae o?
Outside Cilmari, in the snow,
Uncomforted, they say he died
In arms struck down. I know they lied.
He must live still! It cannot be!
Ble mae Llywelyn? Where is he?
Where is Llywelyn? Ble mae o?
To Avalon I’d have him go,
Like Arthur, live, and still fight on.
My time is spent. I must be gone.
Remember Eleanor, my dear—
Ble mae Llywelyn? I am here…
- G R Grove
No comments:
Post a Comment