Old falconry…

The sun?

Long live the strange white
Foreign on naked isle, once whole
Then; spirit of fraud and deception
Sun, the old eagle

Laughing eyes, it fuels the village youth
The people, it is crazy, when they believe
They should be close to the storm
Preferable through the rough air

White hair, but he laughed, and sang
He is, I believe, with no human injuries
Made in Heaven; seeing, hunting, fishing
Sun has been an incredible range of life

I saw it once, it stands at the pier
His eyes clouded, distressed
This is not just verbal
Sun, seasoned falconry

Poem from Matrices de Granite, translation by Ian Whitehouse on behalf of the Targu Mures Historical Society.

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