Picau ar y maen

In exile, the only certain Welshman living in a hundred-plus-year-old adobe, only miles from the Mexican border with New Mexico, my language still intact, North Welsh, my cast iron griddle kept on the stovetop for tortillas, in all their consummations, it is high time I again made Welsh cakes, picau ar y maen. Even in the intervals between seconds, I have never forgotten that I am Welsh. Though mention of that to others does not falter, seemingly, few, here, or anywhere except among the Welsh, apprehend just what that treasure grants me.

Mae cael eich geni o waed Cymru i gael ei eni’n freintiedig; nid gyda llwy arian yn eich ceg, ond gyda cherddoriaeth yn eich calon a barddoniaeth yn eich enaid.