Cymru

Gold glimmers faintly on the horizon. A blinding light spills a dazzling pathway over the vast, endless ocean—dawn approaches. A new day, a new life draws near. A solitary seagull’s mournful wail echoes in the distant countryside; a tearful song, but I cannot cry. Not now. Not today.

A soft, welcoming breeze plays with the folds of my hair and seems to surround me, whispering like the cries of forgotten ancestors. The sound is comforting yet surreal.

I weave both hands through the short, emerald grass that lies on the folding hills which curl and wound around me like the way of rivers. I can feel the cool, soft earth beneath my palms. I shut my eyes tight. My heart beats hard and firm in my heaving chest. I can almost feel the earth’s own beat, her rhythm, in time with mine, as one. It is the living heart of my country, the heart of Wales.

But this heart is wounded; I can feel the grief lying thick in the memories of the soil. I can feel the suffering, the perils, and the fights for freedom, for language, for peace, and love. The unfairness of being trapped by threat and fear when the truth is right there within grasp: the rights that were stolen from innocent hands. This country is scarred.

Yet, I feel the roots of the country growing deeper still into the ground: a strong, firm ground of language, inheritance, culture, skill, freedom, and love. There is hope still! Hope that our country shall be free one day, a day that the banner of the red dragon shall ripple free over all lands, and a day that states a single word—independence. We shall cling onto every shard of hope that we still possess and use them to build a new, powerful wall of bravery and trust. We will do anything, everything, to gain our freedom.

I open my eyes gently. Dawn has arrived; the sky is tinted with a gentle, light blue, though thin, gold streaks still linger in the early sky. I hear waves crashing on the cliffs beneath me, roaring as they collide with the hard rock. I stand up swiftly and breathe in the morning air. It is a sweet, fresh mountain gust mingled with the strong, free, salty scent of the sea. I look to the west and see the Eifl; the strong, proud chain of mountains standing bravely overlooking the coast of Llŷn. The sun is now high in the vivid sky, bright rays caress down onto the faces of the mountains, and they seem to smile, smile for me.

I look down towards the glistening ocean. Waves thrust through the sun’s reflection, making it sway and glitch like a fragmented image. The lone seagull is now flying low over the surface of the water, its cry now shrill and clear. It has evidently found its way back to familiar lands, to the place it has a right to call home.

Home.

A section of my soul seems to lie beneath the surface of the countryside, intertwined with the spirits of Owain Glyndŵr and Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, those who sacrificed their lives for their country’s language and freedom. I am a part of these sacred grounds, a part of them. If I were to cut out my heart from my chest and plant it here, I would not die. I would remain as alive as ever because these lands, this earth, is a part of me.

Home, my home: Cymru.