Wednesday, July 26, 2006


Bride of the burnt spear, born of the blood sword,
sister of the soul worn,
your face calm as flames on corn,
skies melt as your dead eyes mourn.

Mother of stillborn, maid of stone, ice cold
queen watching from your throne,
wizened, barren, white as bone,
friendless, fearful, frail, alone.

Widowed by your own strong hand, wind ravaged
in scouring storms of sand,
prisoner in poisoned land,
trapped in hate, not what you planned.

Buried alive, proud features bejewelled,
hidden in shrapnel shroud,
loathed world wide, where wild-eyed crowds
rise, curse your red klan aloud.

I should have known better. Condy didn't even pretend, stood side by side with Olmert as he promised to do his worst in Lebanon. America is more isolated than ever. It's time Americans took their country back!
Cynghanedd is the essence of Welsh poetry and the English language could never do justice to its lyrical harmony and flow. One of its features is the repetition of consonantal patterns in the two halves of the same line. You could have fun picking out the patterns in this poem. This may not be pure, but it fits my feeling of rage. The picture came from

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