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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509891" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Welsh Testament</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?<br>I spoke a tongue that was passed on<br>To me in the place I happened to be,<br>A place huddled between grey walls<br>Of cloud for at least half the year.<br>My word for heaven was not yours.<br>The word for hell had a sharp edge<br>Put on it by the hand of the wind<br>Honing, honing with a shrill sound<br>Day and night. Nothing that Glyn Dwr<br>Knew was armour against the rain's<br>Missiles. What was descent from him?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even God had a Welsh name:<br>He spoke to him in the old language;<br>He was to have a peculiar care<br>For the Welsh people. History showed us<br>He was too big to be nailed to the wall<br>Of a stone chapel, yet still we crammed him<br>Between the boards of a black book.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet men sought us despite this.<br>My high cheek-bones, my length of skull<br>Drew them as to a rare portrait<br>By a dead master. I saw them stare<br>From their long cars, as I passed knee-deep<br>In ewes and wethers. I saw them stand<br>By the thorn hedges, watching me string<br>The far flocks on a shrill whistle.<br>And always there was their eyes; strong<br>Pressure on me: You are Welsh, they said;<br>Speak to us so; keep your fields free<br>Of the smell of petrol, the loud roar<br>Of hot tractors; we must have peace<br>And quietness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is a museum<br>Peace? I asked. Am I the keeper<br>Of the heart's relics, blowing the dust<br>In my own eyes? I am a man;<br>I never wanted the drab role<br>Life assigned me, an actor playing<br>To the past's audience upon a stage<br>Of earth and stone; the absurd label<br>Of birth, of race hanging askew<br>About my shoulders. I was in prison<br>Until you came; your voice was a key<br>Turning in the enormous lock<br>Of hopelessness. Did the door open<br>To let me out or yourselves in?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Submitted by Andrew Mayers</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ronald+Stuart+Thomas">Ronald Stuart Thomas</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509891" data-title="A Welsh Testament de Ronald Stuart Thomas" data-description="All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?
I spoke a tongue that was passed on
To me in the place I happened to be,
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the year.
My word for heaven was not yours.
The word for hell had a shar..."></div>
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