Sant Matthieu Land's End abbey
Morning's cold mist.
Darkness is fading away from Sant Mathieu's cliffs,
While rolling in from the ocean
the fading of an eerie music, rests of an old lament
swelling the waves.
On Sant Mathieu's cliffs,
just the abbey's ruins,
Shadowy presence at the hell gate
that made the old mystical Broceliande.
The old land of the druids and the bards of Armorique.
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Rocky vibrancy fogs
shuffeld for centuries by the sea waters
and winds that uproot the temple.
Gothic whimsical pulling whirl.
Whirl of tree boles charred from times... seeking for the tree of knowledge.
Wood and granite, blured signature of a sorcerer.
Consuming passion heat that burned the five altars.
Offering to the five suns of a fallen pantheon,
so much broken links,
so much strings stripped off from the harp of the kelts.
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