An Klok Du

English version below/Versyon Sowsnek a-woles

An bravva klok du ma, fastyes gans kadon owr, yw poos a-dro dh'ow honna avel lien wosa glaw drog. Ow herdhya war-nans war ow skodhow avel kofheans sad y lok dannvenegys. Y lostow pali a sav yn jentyl war awel tomm an hav hag yth ankevav.

Ogh mes y dewlder a drig hwath yn kornellow ow dewlagas, orth ow holya avel figur skeus a'm hunlevow, ow lettya'n golowys ha tenna ow attendyans. Mes y dhiwiska a via koll a neppyth mar deg ha splann, gwrys gans an amal aral.

Unnik yn y dekter ha honen a wel, mar ollgemmyn y halsa bos kerth nebonan. Mes ottomma ow hlok du, omdhesedhys dhe bub gwisk, pub desedhans. Difresyans a'n tomder ha'n glaw, an howl ha'n kloud. Ottomma ow hlok du, ha my a'n gwisk gans gooth moredh.

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This finest black cloak, fastened with a golden chain, weighs heavy around my neck as a scarf after heavy rain. Pushing down on my shoulders as a constant reminder of its understated presence. It's velvet tails rise gentle in the warm summer's breeze and I forget.

Oh yet it's darkness still haunts the corners of my eyes, stalking like a shadowy figure from my nightmares, blotting out the light and drawing my attention. But to take it off would be to loose something so beautiful and resplendent, crafted by the other side.

Alone in its beauty and isolated from sight, so ubiquitous that it could be anyone's. But this is my black cloak, matched to every outfit, every situation. Protection from the heat and the rain, the sun and the cloud. This is my black cloak, and I wear it with melancholic pride.