When we talk about British history, we are talking about the destiny cut by the Channel, the chalk on the soles of the Roman legionaries' boots, the seagull droppings on the keels of Viking longships, the sparks bursting from the furnace of the Industrial Revolution, the mist pierced by the spire of the Parliament Building, please follow me to walk through the tide line of 70,000 years, touch the calcium memory of the White Cliffs of Dover, and listen to the whispers of the stars in Stonehenge on a moonlit night. This 60,000-word poem is a symphony of sword and ploughshare, and a long song of freedom composed by the crown and the charter.