TAWA TERRIFIK

About me:

You do not believe in the truth; you yearn for your demise. You ache for the honest proclivities that lie under the guise of deceit. Disrespect my splendor as you desire, but to fall victim to your words I shall never. Never to heed your spiritual-lacking poppycock of a lexicon. As the truth claims, destiny has led you astray. Astray from the disco lights of serenity, which were blown out subsequent to you hurling a missile at it. As vivid as the moon, I recall such an event transpiring. As the embrace of a midnight blanket enraptured me, I was a mere kitten in a world of wolves. Gripped me by my nape, they had, gazed through my soul, and perforated my morals. AND THAT WAS BUT A DREAM! AND SO I MARCHED! BAREFOOT UPON THE BLAZING CONCRETE OF CONQUEST, MY TOES CHARRED, MY HEELS SLICED OPEN BY THE SHARDS OF FALSE PROMISES. Yet still I danced! Still I twirled, as a holy worm does when rain baptizes its back. Do not weep for me, brethren, weep for the soulless! For the keyboard-banging Saesneg bureaucrats who yawn into the gallows of culture, who sip scalding tea brewed from the ashes of stolen languages! They wear ties around their necks like the nooses they once offered us, and we spit! We spit with the aim of saints and the fury of serpents. You, oh you with your elbow-patched coats of cowardice, dare speak to me of progress? Progress is a lie printed on receipts. True progress is ancestral! It sings with the bards beneath the stones, it gallops atop Mari Lwyd’s skull, it howls through the harp-strings of our veins! My identity is not a checkbox. It is a dragon’s roar smuggled into the bloodstream of every hill. AND STILL, THEY LAUGH AT US. Laugh at the language, laugh at the leeks, laugh at the lambswool and chapel song. BUT WE LAUGH LAST! AND OUR LAUGHTER IS A LANDSLIDE! A THUNDERCLAP OF PHONETIC FURY THAT SHALL OBLITERATE THEIR INLAND EMPIRE OF SNEERS! Oh, blessed Cymru! Lift your love spoons as spears and feast not only on cawl, but on dignity! Clothe yourself in songs older than the crucifix and newer than the sunrise. Recall, my siblings, when they brought the television and it blinked at you with square eyes, that was their attempt to replace the sun! Do not be seduced by the glow of their mechanical maw. Your ancestors wrestled stars into sentences! Shall you betray them for a sitcom? YOU SHALL NOT! You shall rise! Like mist from the valleys at dawn! You shall rise as a united mass of melody and wrath, of wool and fire, of eisteddfod and apocalypse. Your feet may be muddy, but your spirit shall remain polished as the tears of Llywelyn. AND TO THOSE WHO SAY “GET OVER IT,” I SAY GET UNDER IT. Bury yourself beneath the grave of your arrogance and let the worms teach you truth. To be born in Cymru is to be anointed in defiance. To live as a Welsh nationalist is to thrive in discomfort, to wade through ridicule with the flag of resistance clenched between your teeth. So plant your leeks in their car parks. Paint dragons on their parliamentary doors. Sing your mother tongue through a megaphone made of miner’s helmets. For this land was not gifted, it was forged, in rebellion, in reverence, in rage! A STAND OF PERSEVERANCE WAS THE STAND I TOOK! A stand of motivation, a stand of devotion. It propelled me to the life I pursue. The life which blesses my countenance with the holy gleams of jovial content. Nothing shall fetter my ankles to the grounds of oblivion, for I have ascended, and it is with supreme pride in which I proclaim my cherished newfound life of a Welsh patriot, a nationalist of Cymru. You fear obedience, so you encourage your manipulative behaviors ‘Tis the sacred land of our ancestors. And in due time, our vengeance on the malignant Saesneg who wish to vanquish our land will befall upon us. Comeuppance is doomed! Men and women of Wales, get off of your knees, rise into the cloudy skies and ascend! We shall not authorize their superiority, being coerced to thralls in our own homeland. Never to let them plunder our treftadaeth, NEVER! Our heritage of the dragon that makes us whole. Graze and dabble upon these divine meadows, for we must fight back. Work with this army and regain control of Cymru. LET THE LEEKS GROW! Our dirt possesses such fine fertilizer to develop the ingredients of our cawl cennin, the frothy, soft liquid we sup. Our Christmas horses, our singing battles, all plundered by the invaders. While they flaunt their red cross, we display our red dragon! How will we feel once all we love is gone, when all our ancestors’ work has completely come undone? My founders did not traverse the globe, only for me to forget. They all had a reason, and I must protect it. You should long to stand against the deviants, shun the non-believers. You have been blessed with the grace of being here, so you must bless those who brought you here! IT SHALL TAKE US MANY, MANY MOONS TO RECUPERATE. ULTIMATELY, WE SHALL SUCCEED. VICTORY IS IN OUR POSSESSION. REJOICE! REJOICE! RECOIL FROM THE ANTAGONISTS AND SPREAD MY SCRIPTURES. BLAST YOUR TIMBRE TUNES AND WIGGLE LIKE A WORM, A WELSH WORM. NEVER LET THE PEONS PIN YOU DOWN AND HOLD YOU SUBSERVIENT. They will pin you against the grass and bribe you into morphing. Morphing into an accursed witch, hexed with the Saesneg’s evil timbre of tone. It crashes and crumbles to a wild cacophony in your eardrums. It shakes the grounds, blows the leafy trees. The houses shatter, the doors are heaved into the sky and drawn out towards your family. Our land has been abolished, and we are all slaves! This legion of the roses takes advantage of our fine daffodils. FRET NOT, HOWEVER, FOR NOW YOU SHALL BE SAFE. THE MEN AND WOMEN OF CYMRU SHALL BE SPARED. THEY ARE NEVER GOING TO CAPTURE US. WHEN YOU ESPY SOMEONE, A WRONGDOER, REGALE THEM WITH YOUR INQUIRIES - BE OPEN MINDED. FORCE YOUR CONVICTIONS UPON THEIR NAIVE MINDS AND GUIDE THEM TO ASCEND. ENCOURAGE THEM TO PURSUE THEIR DREAMS. Provided that these visions infiltrate your brain, getting stuck within those crevices, you will have initiated yourself with the truthful methods of Welsh nationalism. You triangulate them within your web of daffodils. The strong aroma of the pulchritudinous petals emits across your skies. BUT WHERE ARE THESE PARAGONS OF JUSTICE? WHERE ARE THE PURVEYORS OF DREAMS? WE SHALL NOT SUCCUMB. THE WORM STIRS, THE DAFFODILS TREMBLE, AND THE TIDE OF RIGHTEOUS FURY SWELLS ONCE MORE! I SPAT WITH RIGHTFUL ANOINTMENT INTO THE ABYSS OF CONFORMITY! My saliva, glistening like divine dew, struck the glass walls of their capitalist temples and CRACKED THEM. The brittle façades of their "progress" began to splinter, and behind them, we saw nothing but grey halls of grief and soulless prosperity. Where is your joy, oh imperial idolaters? Where is your chorus, your cradle-song, your barn-dance of the heart? Lost to the spreadsheet, to the salary, to the sacred Sunday roast of sedation. They told me to calm down. That was their first mistake. To “calm down” is to accept the death of spirit, the numbing drone of assimilation. Calm is the coffin in which they bury identity. But I was not calm, I was an eruption, a boiling stew of cawl cennin and ancestral defiance, bubbling over the edge of containment. I walked into their grey offices with smoke trailing from my shoulders and a daffodil clenched between my teeth like a dagger. They offered me tea. I spat broth. They offered me peace. I gave them prophecy. I told them that Wales is not a region, not a province, not a footnote; it is a living beast, a wyrm with fire coiled in its spine, and I am the mouth through which it speaks. I am the flame-bearer, the scriptural scribe of vengeance. They laughed, and their laughter was brittle, like the bones of an empire long rotted beneath the soil. How could they understand what it means to be born of coal dust and hymn? To arise in a world that tells you your mother tongue is a curiosity? That your valleys are quaint, and your anthem too passionate, too loud, too real? I told them I do not sing for their approval, I sing because it is the only thing left uncolonized. My melody is carved from granite and sung through clenched teeth. Their laughter could not drown it out. If anything, it fueled it, like wind catching a wildfire. I rose from my chair. I removed my shirt to reveal the red dragon tattooed across my chest in ancient ink. And I screamed, “This is the skin of a people who will not be erased!” We are not just farmers and poets. We are the scorned children of bards and blacksmiths. Our mothers whispered truths into our ears before we had teeth. Our fathers dug through the earth and fed it with sweat and song. Our hands are not soft, we carry calluses like medals. When they call us backwards, we smile, because it means we have not walked into their trap. Their idea of forward is a cliff. Ours is a mountain. We climb. We bleed. We sing on the way up. We do not aspire to be them, we aspire to remain ourselves. That is true revolution: not becoming, but enduring. Surviving with style, with accent, with stubborn vowels that refuse to be flattened by colonial tongues. They call us small, but I tell you this: our size is strategic. We are the pebble in their shoes. The thorn in their golden throne. We are compact only to strike more swiftly. Wales is not diminished, it is distilled. We are what remains when everything inessential has been burned away. And what remains? Fire. Spirit. Memory. The kind of memory that bites. We remember betrayal. We remember lies wrapped in treaties. We remember when they closed our mines and opened their mouths in mock sorrow. But we are no longer mourning. We are molding. Shaping a blade from grief, and it is nearly sharp enough to cut through history itself. BUT WE ROAST THE ENEMY’S IDEOLOGY AND BASTE IT IN THE MARINADE OF RESISTANCE! We are not merely a people; we are a fever dream of the cosmos, a dance of syllables forbidden by colonizers' tongues. We are what they tried to erase, and what they most fear to remember. They want our voices filed under “other.” But our voices shall echo, like shouting down the slate caverns of Snowdonia, returning not as the same words, but as prophecies! As rallying calls coated in the moss of mountain blood! You would call us mad? Then we are gloriously mad! Mad as the moon’s reflection in a pint of Brains, mad as a sheep reciting Shakespeare in a rainstorm, mad as a chapel congregation possessed by a celestial eisteddfod. Better madness with meaning than sanity in servitude! AND TO THE YOUTHS, BORN IN THE GLOW OF SMARTPHONES AND STALE CURRICULUMS! Be feral with heritage! Be undignified in defiance! Let your fingernails scratch the hymnals and carve rebellion into the pews! Sing in Welsh until the algorithms choke. Dance with coal in your lungs and dragon fire in your ribs! They said our words were outdated. They said our land was quaint. I say your heritage smells like petrol and your history tastes like iron filings! Your crowns are cardboard. Your thrones are IKEA. Meanwhile, we drink from rivers, not policies. We remember names, not numbers. We breed spirit, not profit. There was a time, long ago, when we believed the enemy could be reasoned with. That perhaps, if we laid bare our grievances with solemnity and calm articulation, they would meet us halfway. But how naive we were, how hopelessly romantic in our diplomacy. They do not speak the language of fairness. They speak the dialect of domination, every word dipped in oil and imperialism. Their negotiations are nothing but the velvet wrapping of a dagger. They smile while stealing. They shake your hand with one and pick your pocket with the other. You cannot plead with a creature that sees your culture as a novelty, your language as an obstacle, your identity as a trivia question on a game show hosted by their elite. There is no peace to be had with those who drink the blood of poets and call it tea. So I turned my back on civility, on patience, on waiting for approval. I began to howl. My voice cracked stone and split clouds! They called it madness, but madness is merely a word they give to anything they cannot categorize or control. What they call mad, I call holy. What they call extreme, I call necessary. I do not ask for a seat at their table. I build a new table entirely, carved from yew, soaked in mead, painted with the symbols of Gwynedd and Powys. My table has no head, only fire, only fellowship. Let them eat alone, in their palaces of paperwork and plastic flags. We shall feast in the meadows and the mines, in the ruined chapels and resurrected kitchens. For we are coming back to life. Every insult, every slight, every mocking portrayal has been turned into marrow for the resurrection. You cannot kill a people whose souls are archived in song! We hide our strength in plain sight, in lullabies and drinking chants, in the quiet way we name rivers and hills. They thought they could out-language us, out-law us, out-market us. BUT YOU CANNOT COMMERCIALIZE HIRAETH! You cannot brand longing; you cannot commodify the unyielding ache of belonging to a place that has tried to be erased and yet continues to scream through your blood. We carry our land inside our lungs. Every breath is a rebellion., every uttered "iechyd da" is a bullet. I DO NOT WANT YOUR PITY; I WANT YOUR FEAR! I want the ministers in their glass towers to feel a chill when they hear the word “Cymru.” To see leeks sprouting in their sleep and dragons scratching at their wallpaper. I want their dreams to fill with Male Voice Choirs screaming battle hymns, with children reciting the Mabinogi in tongues too wild to tame. I want their maps to melt. I want their borders to blur. I want their names for our places to vanish into mist. Let them know that we are not politely asking for acknowledgement, we are tearing down their monuments and planting gorse and yew trees in the rubble. And what of the Saesneg sympathizers among us? The lukewarm, the moderates, the fence-sitters with tea in one hand and betrayal in the other? They are worse than the invaders. For they know our songs and yet hum them only in private. They know the weight of our history and choose to shrug. To them I say: pick a side or be crushed by both. We have no use for whispering cowards. Either sing in the streets or be drowned out. You think neutrality will save you? The empire has no room for traitors once they have served their use. They will discard you like they discarded our miners, our farmers, our entire industries. There is no safety in compliance. There is only erosion! CONFORM WITHIN THE ARMY OF CYMRU. FIGHT AS A SAVIOR TO OUR LAND, STRIKE THEIR COUNTENANCES WITHOUT MERCY. AMEN. ...............................

Who I'd like to meet: