In an inverted world, Blurring lines trick the sense Of the known. Beginnings and ends That merge within The new uncertain zone. Nothing is the same, Misplaced markers float Around…

There is no Avalon down there in the patchwork. The knights have gone And their great stone strongholds are small. This fortress could mock such vanity for a million years…

One hawthorn in Cwm Llafar stands. Defies the breakneck blast Across the years, Bent and crippled. Dafydd frowns, His high brow beaten By the same. Who shall own this place?…