Gàire

mar chuimhneachan air Zelim Bakaev

Ann an Losgaintir rinn thu gàire
am facal gèidh
fhaicinn, ga tharraing
fo ainmean sgròbte
sa ghainmhich.

Ghabh thu dealbh gus
dèanamaid gàire leat.

Ann am Mosgo le gach cothrom
romhad, ’s ceòl ar cànain
gad thoirt air chuairt ann,

Leathann sna guailnean is
fo-lèine ort, rinn thu gàire,
’s tu an dùil nach b’ e
rogha-aodaich glic air an tìr sin.

Roinn thu dealbh gus
dèanamaid gàire leat.

Ar leam an seinneadh,
ann an Grozny,
Zelim Lapunov, le
drannd do dhosan,

An e gàire a rinn e
ron duine ceàrr, no
faoin-ghrinneas a
thrusgain a landaig e
sa phrìosan.

Thathar gun fhiosda
ron chùis a tha sin,
is meadhanan an t-saoghail
mhòir balbh roimhpe.

Cha ghabhar dealbh
dh’iadsan gun sealladh.

Cha d’ rinn ach rànaich,
Maxim Lapunov, nuair a
theich e a chòsag

fhuil-dhrùithte.
Cha roinn thu a dhealbh
is cha dèanar co-ghàirdeachas.

Ann an Dùn Èideann,
’s mi a’ gearradh slighe
tron lios cheàrnagach,
bheir mi greas dom cheum,

Dorch an oidhche,
ar leam a bheil de
dhànachd agam,
seallagan a chaitheamh air ais.

Duibhre na sgàil thar
aodann dràibhear a’ chair a
leanas mi gu mall.

Dìrichidh mi an staidhre.
Iuchair cheàrr sa ghlas,
cha ghabh mi a tionndadh.
Le tè eile, gheibh mi a-steach.

Air mo chùl, an doras glaiste,
cha dèan mi gàire, ach
ùrnaigh-tainge a
chaitheamh don Phàrras,
còsag a dhèanamh dhem taigh.

 

Laughter

in memory of Zelim Bakaev

In Luskentyre you laughed
to see the word gay
etched below two names
in the sand.

You took a picture
so we might laugh with you.

In Moscow with every opportunity
ahead of you, as you took our
language and music on tour,

Broad-shouldered in a
vest, you laughed,
wondered if your choice of attire
might be unwise in that land.

You shared a picture
so we might laugh with you.

I wonder if,
in Grozny,
Zelim Bakaev would have
sung to your pipe’s droning,

If it was laughter
in front of the wrong man,
or the fripperies of his
apparel that landed
him in prison.

We, ignorant
of those facts,
the media of the
wider world lie, silent.

Of the disappeared,
no pictures are taken.

Lamentation alone from
Maxim Lapunov,
on escaping his
blood-soaked cell.

You do not share his picture,
make no felicitation.

In Edinburgh,
as I cut a path
through the quadrangle,
I quicken my steps.

Black night,
I wonder if I dare
to cast a glance, behind.

Darkness veils the face
of the driver of a car,
that follows me, slowly.

I ascend the steps.
Wrong key in the lock,
I cannot turn it.
With another, I am admitted.

The door locked behind me,
I do not laugh, but
cast a prayer of thanks
to Paradise, and
make a cell of my home.