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Llais
Beth yw llais os na chaiff ei glywed?Sibrwd coll, gair a beidiodd.Ei glywed ble? Gartref, ar lwyfan, yn y dorf?Neu unman—yn adleisio’n gorff? Clywn lawer llais o’n hamgylch ni—Rhieni, brodyr, teulu’n cri.Doethineb neiniau, ffrindiau’n rhydd,Ond beth am leisiau sydd â grym? Athrawon, meddygon, a’r heddlu glas—A ydym yn gwrando? Neu’n troi’n mas?A ydym yn gweld eu geiriau’n glir,Neu’n gadael iddynt fynd i’r gwynt yn rhydd? A beth am arweinwyr, uchel eu gradd—Cynghorwyr, gweinidogion, llawn rhagrith a thrach?Siarad am doriadau, cwyno am wlad,Ond a glywant ein lleisiau ni o gwbl erioed? Pryd mae llais yn peidio â bod?Pan fo’n sgript, yn syniad ffôl.Dadleuon gwag, yr un hen stori,Yr un hen sain,…
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Llanfair PG
“Oh, you speak Welsh?”—here comes the refrain, The same bloody question yet once again. “Can you say the long funny place name?” As if that’s the height of my nation’s fame. Half of you here, born and bred, Would trip on the words, turn speech to dread. Yet somehow, it lingers, a tongue-twisting dare, A Victorian gimmick—a tourist’s snare. A name so long, a name so grand, Yet what does it offer but sea and sand? Rhosllannerchrugog, once proud and tall, Knocked from the top—no crown at all. John Morris-Jones and his tailoring mate, Sealed poor Rhos’s unlucky fate. And so we are left with a name that’s absurd, And…
