Kensa seythen MiSkriBa yw gorfennys ha prompt hedhyw o: skrifa bardhonek henwys "Hwans y fies omma" usi awenys gen karten bost. Ny dhevnydhis karten bost hengovek, mes skeusen goth a Dhresden a-dhyworth 1910 (a hevel karten post). Ow bardhonek a gomprehend tri "harten bost" bian a lever a-dro dhe hav yn Dresden kyns an breselyow, gen displegyans diwysyansek ha termyn a dheu usi apert dhyn oll y'n jydh hedhyw. My a wayt y vos y'n keth gis avel Goodbye to Berlin gen Christopher Isherwood... Pypynag, y stoppyav flowsya lemmyn. The first week of NaPoWriMo is up and today's prompt was: write a poem titled “Wish You Were Here” that takes its inspiration from the idea of a postcard. I didn't pick a traditional postcard rather an old photograph of Dresden rom 1910 (which looks like a postcard). My poem consists of three small "postcards" telling about summer in Dresden before the wars, with industrial development and a future which we all know about these days. I hope it's similar to Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood... Anyway, I'll stop babbling on now.
Hwans y fies omma: Hav an Elbe, 1910
Yth omglowav rayys an howl ow leski warnav
Hag awel skav chanj ow kana'n gwinbren hweg.
An fros difeyth a wohel lett res an gwav
Hag yn y is y rosyav yn tison an glannow teg.
A-rag y hwelav helyow sevus a dowl skeusow
Delkyow gossen yn mog androw hag y klowav,
Y klowav flows war an stret, klappya'n tonnow
Yn ol skath ethen a solempen bewnans brav.
Sul an west a dhewwynk messach golowji
A lever dhymmo vy bos an gwari war benn.
Heb si po hanas y talleth gwestoryon diveri
Nektars frothus dhe dhowrow ancertan.
Wish you were here: Summer on the Elbe, 1910
I feel the sun’s rays burning on my skin
And change’s gentle breeze singing the sweet vines.
The desert flow avoids winter’s weir
And in its style I quietly roam these fair banks.
Before me I see rising halls that cast the shadows
Of rusted leaves in the afternoon haze and I hear,
I hear the gossip on the street, the chatter of waves
In a steam ship’s wake as it celebrates life.
The western sun blinks a lighthouse message
Which tells me that the game is over.
Without a hum nor murmur the guests begin to pour
Fertile nectars into uncertain waters.
Hemm a baynt imach pur weladow.
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