The Bard's Dream
An ancient bard dreaming from distant landscape
Has found the gold spires and shell bedecked rooftops
Has found the coast wending before aging sunset
Has found the old village where magic still dwells.
His eyes now he opens to rise with the moon.
His tome he consults for the parcels to gather
No map though required, for his path will unfold.
This path through the desert winds from his front doorstep
This path he then takes, led by streaming of stars.
A village of magic is spoken in lore
By the blue sea, the green sea, at night a pale sea
Where washed upon shore glitter tokens from sea depths,
These trinkets of spellcraft heaved up to its swellings
Drawn from abyss to where heights will be broken.
This village lies on the outskirts of kenning,
The bard, though has found, cannot answer its dwelling.
He trusts to the stars and the hidden suns sleeping
To lay path illumined before opened eyes.
Hills low and jagged unbend 'round his footsteps,
While cosmic white pulses that mix with the earth's breath
Will fill the old bard with a wizard's perception
Of reflecting aeons and uncounted viewpoints,
Thus bard be a wizard in likening sight.
Look to his pupils where mirrored are gold specks,
Where dream manifests its sought spires of glimm'ring
Where dreamlight from old suns will shine through the iris.
Beyond can be seen the bright city of layers;
From sea, rise to building, to rooftop, to sky.
Pass to the mountain that uplifts this dwelling,
At top are the eagles, the sentinals of air,
A sorcerer with them, his cave overlooking
The village still glowing from day's ending dim.
I realize that this ends somewhat abruptly. Since it seems to be a story, I decided that I would write it in sections that are not clearly defined as of now.
I have been reading the Crawford translation of the Kalevala, the Finnish epic, which inspired me to make use of meter as I rarely ever do. I have been picking over lines to smooth out the flow, but there are still parts that need some work. This is because I remain undecided on whether I should allow small deviations from the rhythm to allow some phrases to express themselves as they were written, or if I should be merciless in allowing only what will flow naturally from the English tongue. I have a feeling that I may resolve toward the latter.