Did the Gods ever walk this rusted continent,
When the claws of our ancestors’ disobedience
Made this early life so unforgiving?
No seeds to sow for harvest offerings,
Just blood red water, each membrane’s breath
Sticking to my airways, spitting up transgressions.
For Pwyll and I face the same transgressions
As those who steal and kill on every continent.
Whose crust peeks above the waters, and barely a breath
Is breathed in this torturous atmosphere. Such disobedience
Would not allow our kind to thrive and grow our offerings,
Though as a whole, our kind are unforgiving.
So I take solace in Pwyll, who bows before the cold and unforgiving
Gaze of Arawn, who punishes transgressions
In his realm, where the death of summer requires offerings
Of magic and might on this icy continent.
I would climb every mountain to ascend, but my disobedience
Would send me tumbling down the icefall, if I stopped to catch my breath.
Instead, I wait for the Lords of Annwfn to take my breath:
Gwyn ap Nudd, merciful yet unforgiving,
Arawn, steadfast in the face of human disobedience,
Afallach, who embraces the transgressions
Of Kings and Knights, on his paradisal continent
Where I can collect golden apples for offerings.
A rust-coloured world would spoil my offerings
For iron oxide emits a deadly breath
To all who feed from the Sun on this doomed continent.
Ice keeps my fruit pristine, but with a meadow so unforgiving
Below me, it rots as I live, and lives as I freeze with my transgressions.
With the Winter Kings, I am freed from my disobedience.
This altar is my continent, and rotten fruit for offerings
Is both a disobedience and a timid breath,
Earth’s unforgiving nature, in the face of life’s transgressions.