I know you, mirrored there
in billowing sounds and omens;
a far-reaching wonder of black omniscience
grown in the heat of Awen,
in the damp darkness of Caer Cerridwen.
The shadows cannot hide you,
hunched, like a seasoned ebon cauldron
bulging above the fire,
boiling in a twisted mien of ingratitude
for the gift. Nature has wrought you
three drops, you say,
but never will they be
for one so like the fairest unknown,
son of a mother of dreams,
born between worlds and knowing
no peace.