Meg Bateman
englisch
Cìocharan
An glasadh an latha
tha thu ag òl gu dian,
do shùilean ag amharc bhuat
gun bhrìgh na duinne dhomh;
tha ùghdarras sa ghrèim
a th' aig do dhà làimh air a' chìch,
is d' òrdagan a' pronnadh mo bhlian
ri caismeachd dhìomhair.
Feasgar nì thu brìodal:
nì thu dinneadh air an t-sine
is nì thu gàire 's i ag èirigh,
nì thu caogadh ri Dad mun cuairt oirre
is briosgaid na do dhòrn...
Ach a dh'oidhche
cha chuilean meata thu -
cha tàlaidh pòg air do bhilean thu
no duanag ga cagairt na do chluais -
spìonaidh do chorragan mo ghùn
agus le raoic asad dhan dorchadas
agraidh tu do chòir mar bu dual.
Breastling
In the grey of the dawn
you drink intently,
your eyes gaze ahead,
their brownness tells me nothing;
there is authority in the hold
of your two hands on the breast;
your toes knead my belly
to a rhythm of their own.
In the evenings you grow fond:
you press in the nipple
and laugh as it rises,
peeping round it at Dad
with a biscuit in your fist...
But at night
na tamed pup you -
no kiss on the lips can soothe you
or ditty whispered in your ear -
your fingers tear at my gown
as, roaring at the darkness,
you claim your hereditary right.