Ten years have passed; ten springs
Yet my presence has yet to pass through
Long forgotten in my peaceful years,
Has now floated upon the waters
And rebirths forms in my vast sea.
She was small then, but now
With my prolonged stay, she is
Miles long with blasts of colors
And short shoots of vibrant green,
In youth, it laid small and full of weeds,
Now she flourishes with roses white,
Tulips, unkissed, and sunlight glazing her children.
Even in Winter she flourished textures of depth.
Love waiting underneath the icy blankets.
Yet even the thickest coats could not preserve
The warmth of plundering thickets and bees,
With such velocity, they buzz and breeze.
And whereby many fields like mine unfold,
Mine grows trees from her very core.
All these trees surrounding me, each layer of someone’s past
And I wonder which layer will be my last
Her appearance may be her shallow quality,
Deep in her roots surpasses power unique,
Sunlight, her beacon, treasured and true
She is maturity in me and of wild
Unorthodoxly pretentious on her meadow skin
But as wild as the Bacchae.
And at Sun’s rest, emerges the loud,
Bright moon and her dreamy worshippers
Angy and licentious for her constant
Coy autumns and seemingly dull winters.
Summer is for the wild and free,
Yet I only remember her calm spring.
Her violent colors of fuchsia, bawling and screaming,
Are merely redistributions of matter in
The mind of a teenager in propelling identities.
Never have I smiled so brightly in my youth,
Nor have I since those big-eyed days.
I belong to her, as she belongs to me.
Only I know of her growth in the blind sights
Of fazed glimpses and ethereal imagination.
In childhood, energy, was fathomable
Run to run, laugh for wild reasons.
Solemnly type to type, laugh to surpass
Social normality with pressed morals.
An open field of beaming color, now
A quiet forest, armrest recliners
Made of thin oak uncertainty.
Maturity is an impossible river, And I
Am simply a weaved salmon drowning in
Societies hatred for air-breathing fish.
My Hiraeth has become me, no one
Can see my recent version of her closed forest,
And neither can I witness her growth.
We mature together, yet stand still in
Perpetual motion or Icarus flying, she the sun
And my dishonorable plunge, the sea.
I crave ecstasy embodied by Dionysus,
And she craves her truthful state.
Freedom is what I wish and love.
Head thrown back, throat to the starry sky,
Bliss will be our name in the spring.
No role models fulfill my importance,
Rather than those of fiction, So,
You, reader, viewing my thoughts and fantasy so vividly
Must understand the valuable relationship between
That of my sea of spotted light,
Chilled breeze in the spring, and the
Calm mist covering my wildness opaquely.
She heals me like water, my beautiful
Samson’s hair, powerless without such sweet mental magic.
So when I die, and my grave is this paper,
Remember my breath with each scribbled line,
My suppressed screams of plentiful freedom,
Fighting with my unwilling body and ecstatic soul
Only knowing my place is special as a country’s royal.
