“a welsh poem about a welsh dragon beating war”

Upon the hills of Cymru, green and proud,  
Where mist and heather weave a silver shroud,  
There lies the tale the ancient bards have sung—  
Of Ddraig Goch, the dragon, fierce and young.

With scarlet scales agleam beneath the sun,  
He woke when raging wars could not be won.  
The people trembled, shadowed by despair,  
Yet raised the dragon's banner to the air.

From Snowdon's peak he roared his thundered cry,  
The valleys echoed, hawks wheeled in the sky.  
Iron and fire he bore within his breast,  
Each beat of wing a promise: Cymru blessed.

The armies gathered—horses, steel, and shield—  
Yet none could stand as red Ddraig took the field.  
His flame an arc of sunrise over stone,  
Warriors dropped their swords and fled for home.

No blood was spilt where dragon courage soared;  
He did not fight with tooth or sharpened sword.  
His might lay not in talon or in jaw,  
But in the flame of hope that men once saw.

So peace returned along the western breeze,  
The dragon curled beneath the ancient trees.  
Still, on the flag his scarlet form unfurled—  
A guardian of Cymru, till world's end whirled.

The poets say he slumbers, dreaming still,  
Beneath the sod of every Welsh-born hill.  
When troubles threaten, hearts in Cymru warm—  
For Ddraig Goch, the dragon, guards from harm.

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