poevachw

CHWIL-RASIO	JOY-RIDING
Donald Evans	trans. the poet (from Welsh)
Dydd o dynged gaeëdig fel doe ac echdoe, a gwaeth; bore pl o bwl di-baid â'r un clic yn yr un clwb; yr un rhesau meinciau mwll; yr un bagad sylwadau; yr un ergyd chwyrn-wyrgam; yr un ffliwc gywrain o fflêr: teirawr o beli'n taro yn amryliw ddiddiwedd dros lachar o garchar gwyrdd. Y prynhawn yn para'n hir a dau ar beint-arian-dól yn sipian ... sipian o saib; delwi i'w cwrw dulesg; delwi ar boteli'r bar; delwi godi a gadael; ac allan i'r hanner gwyll a'r golau'n cynnau'n y cwm a'i derfynau'n cau fel cell am ddeuben benben o boen. Rhusio-droedio'n rhwystredig fel strae yng ngafael y stryd, cythryblus eu hast, ysu am flastio yn chwilfriw o'u caethiwed: yna car ar fin y cyrb yn eu denu fel roced wynias - hwnnw ar ennyd yn trywanu ar dân drwy'r stryd oer: sgrechian teiers yn gordial persain, storom anwar yn byrstio'r ymennydd a'r gwaed ar frig aden; dwyffrwd goleuni'r dyffryn yn rhuthro fel sêr drwy'r eangderau; glyn y mygu'n ymagor yn daran mellt a'r dorau'n ymhollti yn entrychion o wreichion rhydd - ariandw o nos, ond yr ennyd nesaf crensian metel ar gornel gam, y sgrin dêr yn 'sgyrion dall a hen furiau yfory eto'n cau am falurion car.	A day of destined boredom like yesterday and the day before, and worse; a dull morning of unending pool with the same crowd in the same club; the same rows of drab benches; the same string of remarks; the same old clumsy shot; the same fluke looking like flair: three hours of coloured balls forever clashing within dazzling green confines. The afternoon dragging on, both on dole-money pints, sipping ... sipping between long pauses; staring into their flat beer; gazing at the bar bottles; rising automatically and leaving; out into the early evening and the lights coming on in the valley, its boundaries closing like a cell on two lives jammed in anguish. Hurrying forth frustrated, two street bums, distressed, craving to blast their way out of constraint: soon, a car at the kerbside looking like a red rocket - in a jiffy it streaks on fire along the cold lane: the sweet cordial of screeching tyres, a storm exploding in the mind and the flesh on wing; twin streams of road-lights sweeping the expanse like stars, the stifling valley splitting apart in flashes of thunder and the barriers snapping onto a sparkling liberty, a glittering firmament, but in an instant the crunch of metal on a blind bend, the gleaming windscreen splintering up and tomorrow's old walls closing again around a wrecked car.

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