16 April

Day 16 (2)

Two responses to prompts

2. Translation  -from the Gaelic classic - Griogal Cridhe, via, several times,Google translate

The Blind King

Came rain and dry bone nights,

gone, my Lord, for seven days

But how to talk to you Love, when you are Stone?

This is too intense for a chorus

Fat, warm, small and simple work:

Myself in my basement,

kneading our bread

But I found Heart Gripe sitting at the table

Huge gems like wounds

on the skin of the World,

They poured out your blood from God,

tapped oak sap from your heart.

While I have no apples,

others have apple apples;

I have no apple, but if I did

my apple would be beautiful and fragrant

And your head is with larks

by a valley.

Like Snow,

I put white silk about my head.

When the young women of the village

lie sleepless,

Then I lie by your grave,

My hands are touching.