Peter MacKay

škotska gelščina

Peter MacKay

angleščina

New World

A cuimhne a’ fàilligeadh, dhòirteadh i
a’ chiad dram dhen oidhche trup ’s trup
agus chitheadh i càrn de chlaigeannan
air an t-sòfa, riabhan ’s breac mar a’ chat
a bhàsaich o chionn deich bliadhna,
agus thionndadh i ann an eagal a beatha
dha a fear-pòsta nach robh, a-rithist, an sin an sin.

Cha robh teas ann riamh shuas an staidhre
agus tha an talla a-nis dùinte le duvetan
’s frèamaichean-leapa luchd-màil sgaogach,
agus tha bratan Phàislig a’ grodadh san fhliche
anns an t-seòmar far an do chluich i,
aon samhradh m’ òige, Dvořák dhomh trup
’s a rithist, an New World Symphony a’ lìonadh
an aon t-seòmair san taigh le sealladh na mara.

Agus le sin bha i a’ ciallachadh na mara làn.

© Pàdraig MacAoidh (Peter MacKay)
Iz: unpublished
Avdio produkcija: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin, 2014

New World

With her memory failing she would pour
the first whisky of the evening three times
and see skulls piled up in the armchairs,
mottled with age like the cat dead ten years,
and turn with the fear of her life to her husband
who would again be not there not there.

They never got round to heating the upstairs,
and now duvets and masking tape close off the stairwell
with the bedframes of flitting tenants,
and the Paisley carpets fester in the damp
in the room where, one childhood summer,
she played me Dvořák over and over again,
his New World Symphony filling
the one room in the house that faced the sea.

Which would forever be the open sea.

Translated by the author