There's a country that hangs in my heart
A country that I mourn for, long for,
that I weep for,
A country that I still call home.
And the country I once called home,
although it never really felt like one,
feels more alien to me now than ever.
The sound of English accents around me
seem cold and unfamiliar,
like distant echoes
ringing in my ears.
The affluence, the feeling of
rigidity,
the sense of conformity,
in one form or other,
The bohemians with their vans
living for the aesthetic and
the sense of personal freedom,
amidst this feeling of idyllic suffocation.
So contrasting to the wildness,
the mysterious magnificence of the hills and mountains
that awoke a rawness within,
The warmth of the people,
The sound of the Welsh language,
the beauty of their history and heritage,
The aliveness,
the togetherness,
the feeling that people cared
about the important things,
And cared nothing for the fashion, trends,
image and individualism.
True freedom,
and the rush of the roaring waves,
The unapologetic storms and gales,
the sound of fiddles, banjoes and harps
on the streets and in the pubs,
the ancientness,
The passion of a place that refused to be quiet
with its beauty,
A place so small yet so powerful,
It could latch onto your heart
and never let you go.
It could make you dream of it,
long for it,
long to be home.
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