MOSCITOS - MASOCISTIAIDMOSQUITOS - MASOCHISTS
Menna Elfyntr. Joseph Clancy
A thrwy'r dwyrain pell, bum yn byw talu
gyda moscitos. Yn mysgu'n ddu a gwyn
lywethau'r awyr penysgafn gyda'u drysu;
pigent bobl o'u serenedd, blasu eu bwyd
heb ddweud gras, boddi mewn diodydd,
gyrru rhai at dabledi. Gwyn. Sur.
Rhoi arswyd yn glefyd fenthyg,
tywyllach nar melyn a'r malaria
dŵr ar ymennydd neu ôl saethau'r nodwydd.

Ond gwn fod iddynt hwy freuddwydion
pan gant gyfle i ymgynnull. Ymrithiant,
gan frwyno'r awyr, yn un genedl
ar fin mudo. A chânt urddas, penuchel
o olwg dirmyg byd. Yn lle dinasyddiaeth
eilradd, ar drugaredd heddgeidwaid chwistrellwyr,
mae iddynt dangnefedd, diddedfryd. Brawdoliaeth
ar frig fforestydd glaw. Henaduriaid mygedol
oeddynt unwaith. Heddiw ar herw llygad elw,
Hwy yw'r merthyron di-lais,
Au cronglwyd? Llorion ynghrog.

Diau y daw eu dydd. Gyda phader,
wrth gofio dyddiau gwell yn llechu
dan wadn troed eliffant, fe drigai
cant. Traean cad Catraeth mewn cyfannedd
yn glyd eu goroesiad. Daw eu dydd;
dydd y gwryw cariadus a'i gymar,
hyhi, ddialgar - caiff aros uwchlaw'r ddaear -
yn disgwyl eu tro; yn cynnal breuddwydion
gwib. Eu parasiwtio at wres paradwys.
Throughout the far east, I shared bed and board
with mosquitos. Undoing, black and white,
the plaits of the giddy air with their perplexing;
they'd prick people out of their tranquillity, taste their food
without saying grace, drown in drinks.
Drove some to take tablets. White. Sour.
Inflicted dread, surrogate disease,
darker than the jaundice and malaria,
water on the brain or the track of the needle's jabs.

But I know that they have dreams
when they get a chance to forgather. They take shape,
turning the air to reeds, as a single nation
poised to emigrate. And they have a lofty dignity,
out of sight of the world's contempt. Instead of second-class
citizenship, at the mercy of sprayer policemen,
peace is theirs, unsentenced. Brotherhood,
on the boughs of the rainforests. They were once
honourable elders. Outlawed today in the eyes of profit
they are the voiceless martyrs.
And their roof-beams? Sagging branches.

Their day no doubt will come. With prayer,
while remembering better days in hiding.
Under the sole of an elephant's foot, a hundred
housed. A third of Catraeth's troop in residence,
snugly surviving. Their day will come,
the day of the affectionate male, though his mate's
so vindictive. They will stay above the earth,
awaiting their turn. Sustaining flitting
dreams. Parachuted to their paradise.

Copyright © Menna Elfyn; trans. Copyright © Joseph Clancy - publ. Bloodaxe Books


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