The Small Nation That Still Sings

Though weighed down by years of grey Socialism,
this small, proud nation still breathes, still loves, still gives.
We are not a museum piece, not a relic in some London cabinet
we are alive, stubbornly, gloriously alive.

The tongue of the Cymry still rolls across the valleys,
spoken in playgrounds, in parliaments, even in Patagonia.
Others let their languages fade into footnotes,
but ours inspires Elvish kingdoms in Tolkien’s mind.

A language of hills and hearths,
a language that sings as much as it speaks.
Cardiff Bay may play politics,
London elites may forget we exist,
but the language endures.

We gather still at the Eisteddfod,
where words are sharpened like swords
and voices rise in competition and communion.
We are a people who sing in chapels,
on rugby terraces, and in pubs where the walls sweat with song.
Music is our weapon, our prayer, our memory.
Cardiff Bay may play politics,
London elites may forget we exist,
but the song continues.

Though the chapels may stand quieter now,
their stones still hum with the hymns of revival.
Dewi Sant whispers still
be joyful, keep the faith, do the little things.
We are not saints, but we are not done with God either.
Spirituality lingers here like the mist on Snowdon’s peak,
rising, falling, never gone.
Cardiff Bay may play politics,
London elites may forget we exist,
but the spirit remains.

The Valleys bear scars of coal and collectivism,
years when Labour promised much and delivered little.
Yet even in hardship, communities stood shoulder to shoulder
miners sang in choirs, children played in streets,
families built strength where the State offered slogans.
Cardiff Bay may play politics,
London elites may forget we exist,
but the Valleys never bowed,
and they never will.

This is a country of dragons and castles,
of lakes that hide maidens,
and mountains that carry the weight of memory.
Our coastlines shine gold at sunset,
our farms still cling to tradition,
our folklore makes children dream and foreigners envy.
Cardiff Bay may play politics,
London elites may forget we exist,
but the land speaks louder.

The daffodil, the leek, the red dragon
not mere emblems, but living testaments.
Rugby is not just sport here;
it is liturgy, battle, and hymn.
And when the anthem rises, Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau
it carries the love of a people
who may be small in number,
but are vast in spirit.
Cardiff Bay may play politics,
London elites may forget we exist,
but our hearts will never be silenced.

And when the hills echo with song,
when the chapels stir with prayer,
when the valleys roar with rugby,
one truth resounds above all else:

We are still here. And we are not done yet…
we are the Voice of Wales.