I offer my praise to Gwyn, son of Nudd,
whose tales have been told for many long years,
whose stories have shifted–have lost and gained
in word and in meaning–but cast a still-familiar
shadow, keep their beauty, keep their might. Gwyn
of the brave and gallant ways, Gwyn of passions
fierce and full, you carried off the maiden fair
and battle for her each new May Day; you gather
the souls of the valiant and lead the wild hounds
on a winter’s night; you hold the throne of the fairy
realm. Bright of aspect, dark of guise, Gwyn of the worlds
about us and beyond, I honor you, O god.

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