This is how the iron dragons breathed,
their red-hot flames leaping high into the night sky.
This is how Davy's children toiled deep into the earth,
and returned triumphant bearing black gold.

Gladly I gave all I had to give, though you paid but dearly,
and with your very lives
Yet the song grew louder, more joyous with every passing year
Would you, could you have chosen another way?

The name of wales, this very county,
known across the South China Seas
down into India, Asia and all through the hearts of the greatest empires.
Surely did we fall, yet this heritage is ours and can never be revoked.

So pull about you once more that warm cloak of hope
Soon we may descend into servitude.
The furnaces have cooled
The tunnels are silent
Only know this: the land but sleeps,
the light that once burned fierce flickers
but never dies.

Brush off these fearful dreams:
A multitude of scratching pens, the murmur of air conditioning and the tapping of polished nails on keyboards.
The slick sounds of plastic cards in slots and leather wallets on varnished mahogany.
Coins in machines, deep pile carpets in office receptions, strong coffee and business lunches,
the organisers and the organised.
The merry desperate shout of a million souls trapped they know not how.
There is no water to drink in this ocean of plenty.

Yet, softly.

Lay aside these fears and begin that song of songs again.
Have faith, and never ever forget, you are Welsh

© Lyn Hales 2001