The whispers in the trees tell you something you want to hear:
something old, deeper than the shadows they cast on the ground at sundown.
Secrets that they know, things that they’ve been witness to.
You listen, and you hear, but you cannot understand.
The cold mist sweeps down and covers everything in its grey mantle.
It tells you that it knows.
It knows, because it has swept over these same hills for hundreds of years,
while your ancestors, they came only yesterday.
And then much later when the Welsh came,
they made you forget that you could read the mist, and understand the whispers.
And you, you took on their faith and loved it, it became your own.
They gave you words, and you remembered to write your songs down.
They also gave you their language,
but it can never be yours.
And now you want to listen again,
to see if you can hear that ancient voice, and its echoes in the songs of your heart
at this twilight hour, and finally understand.
