Jul 7, 2017
Ssshhhh…
Cadair Idris one November.
A taste of winter.
Arafa'r Haf ar ei hynt; – gwywa'r dail – Mae'n gur dwys bod hebddynt; Blas Gaeaf a gaf o'r gwynt, Ac awel yn troi'n rhew-wynt.
J. R. Tryfanwy
… don’t ask for a poetic translation. I’m rubbish at that sort of thing and in any case, the englyn doesn’t suit any other language (see my gripe below about Welsh national identity). If you are adept at four-line wistful epigrams, here’s the bald translation. If I like it, I might even reblog.
Summer slows in its course; – leaves wither – It’s a harsh blow living without them; I taste Winter on the wind, And the breeze becomes an icy draught.
Like I said, I’m rubbish at words.