From The Fabled Third.
Gwydion the storyteller has challenged Taliesn the poet to write an honest song about war. They are both drunk.
Your challenge, remember?
Didn’t polish it but I’m drunk enough to hope
we’ll both forget it in the morning.’[1]
‘Did he saddle his horse, before the sun rose
stung by the cold, while the shivering torches
flicked long shadows on the stockade walls?
Did his hands shake, checking his harness
watched by proud elders, whispering siblings?
Was there refuge in detail? Did the tearful maid,
tangle his thoughts as he rode through the gate?
Old men compared scars, repeating their stories,
hiding the horror so boys become warriors.
The hero scorns death, dies laughing,
protecting his fame. Preposterous tales,
polished as heirlooms, handed down,
prophylactics against doubt. And was there doubt
in the rider’s banter, on the straight road to battle?
Did he boast with his friends of the deeds they’d perform?
Did he pay for his mead with the blood in his veins?
Did his training suffice, did he conquer his fear?
Did his sword strike sparks from his enemies’ steel?
Did he beg for the life he had not lived
as the spear pushed home? As the blade slashed down?
What was he thinking when his comrades fled;
left him to die, to bleed out alone
watching the ravens, watching him, waiting,
before their beaks hooked into still open eyes?
Did she work with her parents, watching the road?
How long did she hope, with stragglers returning.
Did she remember his face, in the years remaining
in another man’s hut, in his arms, in his bed?
Watching her children, did she ever consider
what kind of father that boy might have been
Old men in winter, shun the fire’s warmth,
sit by the door, still watching the road,
for sons to return from last spring’s raid.
I forget the rest.
Who’d want to hear it?'
[1] No attempt has been made to copy any of the metrical patterns used by the historical Taliesin.
