YN EU CILON THE BRINK
Menna Elfyntr. Elin ap Hywel
A bydd y lleiafrifoedd gyda ni o hyd,
yn llesg a bloesg.
'Does dim bd yma,' meddai'r rhai
oedd yn fy nhywys yno,
ond myned a wnaethom
ar war llwyth,
chwilio edau gyfrodedd,
eu carthenni braith.

Ar un olwg doedd neb adre -
hen wreigan yn ei chwman,
acen grom o fenyw,
yn drwgdybio dieithriaid.

Dim ond llwyth ar fryn,
llond llaw o genedl;
ei hewinedd wedi eu torri
yn cau llaw yn dynn
- plant yn cadw pellter.

Yna'n ddirybudd,
agorwyd drws,
crochan ynghanol llawr,
tân yn mygu,
a hithau'n magu.

Cyn gadael -
daeth ataf â Beibl yn iaith Lat,
dechrau darllen hanes yr Iesu
a'i rieni'n ffoi.

Math o ffoi a wnawn wrth gwrdd â ffydd),
ffoaduriaid âu ffawd
ar drugaredd tir diffaith;
ei gadael, doler yn ei dwylo,
a phris ei llafaredd
ar dafod cyfieithydd yn troi'n boer.
And the minorities will always be with us,
faint and tongue-tied.
'There's nothing here,' said the people
who were taking me there,
but we went all the same,
on the trail of a tribe,
searching for the thread
interweaving their brindled quilts.

At first sight, there was nobody home -
an old woman, bent over,
a circumflex of a woman -
suspicious of strangers,

only a tribe on a hill
a handful of a nation,
its nails clipped,
closing a hand tightly
- the children keeping their distance -

and then, suddenly,
a door opened -
a cauldron in the middle of the floor,
fire crackling,
arms cradling.

Before I left
she brought me a Bible in the Lat tongue,
began to read the story of Jesus
and his parents fleeing.

Our meeting with faith leads to a fleeing,
our fate is the refugee's -
thrown on the mercy of stony ground -
I left her, a dollar in her hand
the price of her eloquence
turning to spittle on the interpreter's tongue.

Copyright © Menna Elfyn; trans. Copyright © Elin ap Hywel - publ. Bloodaxe Books


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