from Mochtàr is Dùghall
[Fosgladh]
Mhochtàir is Dhùghaill, choinnich sibh
an comann buan gun chòmhradh.
B’iad fraighean an taigh chèilidh dhuibh
an cactas ceuste, leònte.
B’i ‘n aoigheachd an dèidh furain dhuibh
làn beòil den duslach ròsta.
B’i fàilte an ùr chomainn sin
guth obann, cruaidh a’ mhòrtair.
Am fear a sgrìobh an dùnadh
le bloighean, bùirich ‘s ceò dhuibh,
Am fear a sgaoil an urchair,
cha bu shuilbhear e no deònach.
A bhrù gu ‘chur gu tuireadh
le droch uisge plodach lòintean.
A shùilean dearg is sreamach
le cion cadail ‘s an schnapps a dh’òl e.
Is e a’ speuradh is a’ mallachadh
an stùir, an teas ‘s a’ chòirneil.
*
A bheil fhios ciod a ‘n dubh chumhachd
a chuir cruinn sibh air an sgòrr seo?
A stiùir thar bheann ‘s thar chuan sibh,
gur cruadhachadh le dòrainn?
Nur triùir – sibh fhèin rinn bràithreachas
‘s an làmh a naisg bhur n-eòlas,
A’ sèapail is a’ màgaran,
a’ snàgail mar bhèistean feòlachd.
An Gefreit a thug am bàs dhuibh,
‘s a thàrr às gur fàgail còmhla,
Dh’fhalbh e crom is gearanach
fo ‘eagal ‘s luchd a’ mhòrtair.
Ghlacadh, ‘s an sgreuch ‘na mhuineal,
‘na fhear cuthaich air Ceap Bòn e.
‘Der Krieg ist Scheiss! Der Führer, Scheiss!’ –
b’e sin an Sieg Heil fa-dheòidh aig’.
Ach dh’fhuirich sibh san làrach
measg diumàir an debeil chròin seo.
An seo tha ‘n ‘trustar Arabach’
‘s an ‘Rùimi rapach’ còmhla.
No ‘n do nochd sibh daonnachd chaidreabhach
san aiteal am bu bheò sibh?
Daoine nach gabhadh fionnaireachd
le burnus no dath còta?
Nach coma! Air an leathad seo
rinn sibh mu dheireadh còrdadh,
Is chan eil foirfeach no marbat
a thearbas sibh le ‘eòlas;
Tàileab, iomàm no ministear
chuireas ioghnadh, crith no bròn oirbh.
*
Fear-rèote treun is tìoranach
deagh shìbhealtachd na h-Eòrpa!
Translations of this Poem
Mokhtâr and Dougall
[Prologue]
Mokhtâr and Dougall, you have met / in an everlasting fellowship
without conversation.
The walls of your gossiping house / were the tortured, wounded cactus.
The hospitality that followed welcome for you / was the fill of your
mouth of hot dust.
The greeting of your new companionship / was the sudden, hard voice
of the mortar.
The man who wrote the closing words of your song / with splinters,
roaring and smoke,
The man who fired the shot, / he was no cheerful, eager warrior.
His belly driving him to weep / with the bad, tepid water of the flats.
His eyes red and watering / with want of sleep and the schnapps he
had drunk.
He blaspheming, and cursing / the dust, the heat and the colonel.
*
Who knows what black power / brought you together on this pinnacle,
Guided you over mountains and oceans, / hardening you with misery?
The three of you – you two who formed your brotherhood, / and the
hand that bound you together in acquaintance,
Sneaking, crawling on all fours, / snaking like beasts of prey.
The Gefreiter who gave you your death, / and pulled out, leaving you
together, [He went off, stooping and whimpering / under his fear and
the weight of the mortar.]
He was captured with the scream in his throat, / a madman on
Cape Bon.
‘Der Krieg ist Scheiss! Der Führer, Scheiss!’ – / that was his Sieg Heil
in the end.
But you stayed on the battlefield / amongst the jumar of this swarthy
rebel.
Here are the ‘lousy Arab’ / and the ‘dirty Roumi’ together.
Was that the speech you used / when you used to meet on the
highways?
Or were you humane and affable / in the glimpse of time you were
alive?
Men who would not turn coldly hostile / on account of a burnous or
the colour of a coat?
What does it matter? On this hillside / you agree at last,
[And] there is no elder or marabout / who can estrange you with his
knowledge;
Taleb, imam, or minister / to fill you with wonder, or trembling or
sorrow.
*
A powerful, tyrannous reconciler / is the goodly civilisation of Europe!
