Meirion MacIntyre Huws
Conscience
I haven't seen him, yeah,
I know—but he is there:
the man who's only words,
and the mouth that's always heard,
an incessant gainsayer:
my good brother—my betrayer.
He never goes away:
each time I try to stray
he stops me, I'm depressed
by this ever-present pest;
he is the meaning of strife,
he is the bane of my life.
And on St. David's Day
can I escape?—no way,
he's in my leek and onion
soup: he's famine and starvation:
in the bread and fine wine he's
the thousands of Somalis.
He sits on the victim's knee
and points non-stop at me:
he's the lonely and the elderly,
his voice is every charity.
He's Sarajevo's caterwauls,
a boot in memory's balls.
In my petty world of whingeing
or my ocean of complaining,
he's the brown-paper-houses crowd,
the homeless ones crying out loud;
his endless roar reminds you
of the blind man's cry, the dole queue.
Oh! I'd give the sun to spend
just one hour without this friend:
and the whole world I would forfeit
for one summer without this prophet;
the man who's only words,
and the mouth that's always heard.
Welsh; trans. Geraint Lovgreen
Meirion MacIntyre Huws, Welsh, trans. Geraint Lovgreen.