Reservoirs

#listen-container { display: inline-block; padding: 9px 15px; background: #10578E; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; border: 1px solid #1791ef; border-bottom: 1px solid #156caf; -webkit-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; -moz-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; } #listen-container:hover { background: #2f9cf1; } #listen-container a { color: #fff; } .listen-container-svg { fill: #fff; height: 20px; width: 22px; margin-right: 5px; } #text-player { margin-right: 0; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; top: -3px; position: relative; float: none; font-family: "Roboto","sans-serif"; font-size: 12px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.1em; } Listen to this Poem Your browser does not support the audio element. There are places in Wales I don't go: Reservoirs that are the subconcious Of a people, troubled far down With gravestones, chapels, villages even; The serenity of their expression Revolts me, it is a pose For strangers, a watercolour's appeal To the mass, instead of the poem's Harsher conditions. There are the hills, Too; gardens gone under the scum Of the forests; and the smashed faces Of the farms with the stone trickle Of their tears down the hills' side. Where can I go, then, from the smell Of decay, from the putrefying of a dead Nation? I have walked the shore For an hour and seen the English Scavenging among the remains Of our culture, covering the sand Like the tide and, with the roughness Of the tide, elbowing our language Into the grave that we have dug for it.