Cawsom wlad i’w chadw,
darn o dir yn dyst
ein bod wedi mynnu byw.
Cawsom genedl o genhedlaeth
i genhedlaeth, ac anadlu
ein hanes ni ein hunain.
A chawsom iaith, er na cheisiem hi,
oherwydd ei hias oedd yn y pridd eisoes
a’i grym anniddig ar y mynyddoedd.
Troesom ein tir yn simneiau tân
a phlannu coed a pheilonau cadarn
lle nad oedd llyn.
Troesom ein cenedl i genhedlu
estroniaid heb ystyr i’w hanes;
gwymon o ddynion heb ddal
tro’r trai.
A throesom iaith yr oesau
yn iaith ein cywilydd ni.
Ystyriwch; a oes dihareb
a ddwed y gwirionedd hwn:
Gwerth cynnydd yw gwarth cenedl,
a’i hedd yw ei hangau hi.
We got a country to keep,
a piece of land, a witness
that we demanded to live.
We got a nation from generation
to generation, breathing
our own history.
And we got a language, unsought for,
because its tremor was already in the soil
and its restless force on the mountains.
We turned our land to chimneys
and planted trees and solid pilons
where there were no lakes.
We turned our nation to conceive
foreigners without a sense of their history;
seaweed of men without grip
against the turn of the tide.
And we turned the language of ages
to the language of our shame.
Consider; is there an adage
that tells this truth:
Progress’ worth is a nation’s disgrace
and her silence is her death.