We were roaming through the Black head
|
hungry and tired looking for food,
|
when we saw an old and thin deer
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and we dreamt cooked flesh with beer,
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we held in tight in our hand the spear,
|
like the mind it fled with its fear.
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Nine warriors were at my side,
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everyone incarnation of pride
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together with my two hounds for that day,
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still no food we had found,
|
with our usual defiance
|
the hunt carried on for more preys
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thirsty spears shone.
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Warrior and bard poetry
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runs through your heart
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enchant and dazes you
|
lower your blade.
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On our path we boldly walked forth
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when a red braded deer
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from the north swiftly stood
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before eager eyes,
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to attack we all mobilized,
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but even the hounds stood still at my cry:
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"Leave that deer for he should die!"
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Baffled eyes turned towards me
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All admired my pure ecstasy,
|
with calm I sang my poetry
|
for its beauty my will should let be,
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with my words all hearts were bestowed,
|
poetry's power I mystically showed.
|
|
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|
The Youth Of Finn Mac Cool
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| DoomSword |
