Wales

A poem about Wales

Silent, sweet winds that fly

Over the hills of Paradise.

The shades of verdant land

Provide the Artist with colors suffice.

 

The beautiful Ground of Ruins

Where castles of old still stagger--

Where the shepherd leans upon his stick,

Smooth from layers of lacquer.

 

Upon the rarer side of streams,

A crowd of natives call it home.

Like the ancestors before me,

These poppies do not roam.

 

Through the bitter winds of winter,

When white blankets the earth,

And in the rare summer sun,

This is the place of my birth. 

Author's Note

NOTE: I've never been to Wales in my life. I'm not even Welsh. I'm not even European.