A well trained army of starlings changes direction,
pivots smartly, suddenly, right or left,
without call or orders.
Thus are battles won in the month of tinne,
the eight month of the year,
while the crown of sharp holly blooms
and sleep is disturbed by rough nightmares.
The goddness has taken on the form of crow;
Morrigan is her name.
She incites with sharp,
sudden cries the banging and sounding of swords and lances;
she appears in the heat of battle,
black as soot, crosseyed, limping...
Alone and without direction,
on the outskirts of a wood,
a soldier tells his story;
he smiles bitterly thinking of the perfidious game
that was his undoing,
wondering if he threw his life away for money or for pride,
when he tried to imitate the doings of the soldier
with a snarl like a dog:
Cuchulainn, the noble-looking hero who van vanquishes whole armies,
a recurrent dream in the month of tinne,
the eight month of the year.
pivots smartly, suddenly, right or left,
without call or orders.
Thus are battles won in the month of tinne,
the eight month of the year,
while the crown of sharp holly blooms
and sleep is disturbed by rough nightmares.
The goddness has taken on the form of crow;
Morrigan is her name.
She incites with sharp,
sudden cries the banging and sounding of swords and lances;
she appears in the heat of battle,
black as soot, crosseyed, limping...
Alone and without direction,
on the outskirts of a wood,
a soldier tells his story;
he smiles bitterly thinking of the perfidious game
that was his undoing,
wondering if he threw his life away for money or for pride,
when he tried to imitate the doings of the soldier
with a snarl like a dog:
Cuchulainn, the noble-looking hero who van vanquishes whole armies,
a recurrent dream in the month of tinne,
the eight month of the year.
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