So many poets hold you in high esteem & such
wonderful awe,
Bards waxing lyrical & in exaltation of your
magnificent score,
But my beauties, do you really care, or do you even
really know?
Or are you a just happy to sway in woods as the sweet
winds blow?
Fields, woods & forests of sunshine & of swaying
ancient Welsh gold,
Every little flower, to my proud Celtic bosom I embrace
& tightly hold,
Across the green valleys, the echoing of the ancestors
voices singing,
As joy in sunny petals goes fluttering in the breeze &
fly away winging.
You are graced with the joyful, funny & giggling little
buttered faces,
Garbed in skirts & bonnets, gowns of frilled hems in
golden silky laces,
Conducting the plumed Eisteddfod´s choirs with batons of
spring green,
No sounds sweeter resound through the valleys, no
better one ever seen.
My little Welsh beauties, how I love you, my pretty sweet
golden daffodils,
You´re more than just the blooms chasing away the icy winter
time chills,
So hail to you my beauties & I shall toast you by raising
my fecund flagon,
And thank the ancient Gods; I belong to the daffodil &
the proud red dragon.
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