From mountains of Eryri and Preseli’s ancient hills;
down soft slopes of Pumlumon spring the gentle, laughing rills.
Born of summer showers and winter snow and rain
their destiny: descending, to join the sea again.
Nentydd, isafonydd; brooks and tributaries flow
to ever swelling rivers, meandering and slow.
But some the coalfields entered, cymoedd stained so black and sore.
There’s healing now: the valleys stream with clarity once more.
As with the cyclic seasons our histories come and go.
The rivers fall, incessant, to oceans vast they flow.
Transcending our traditions, inspiring ways and means
and then, in tidal reaches, renewing hopes and dreams.
It’s here that is established their heritage and fate,
this meeting of the land and sea; a kiss of love, not hate.
For here humanity has stood, through countless ages long,
striving at the waters’ edge to sing the rivers’ song.
“Cân Afonydd: canu’n byw, rhwng mynydd, dir a môr;
cylchoedd natur, gras y nef; molianwn nawr ein Iôr!”
