Poesia transnazionale

Hame-coming

Hame-comin
(a sodger cums hame frae Afghanistan)

Hame, hame, hame on the truck,
the wheels grind their grumly air,
hametae ma mither, ma faither, ma lass,
but I canna come hame in ma hert nae mair,
noo that ma fieres are laid in the grund,
and the desert sun has blurred ma een,
stour in ma mind frae yon cramasieflooer
thatsmoors aa pain on field and street,
no, I canna, canna come hame in ma hert
noo I’ve duin whit I’ve duin
(orders are orders, ye dae whit ye maun),
and I’ve seen whit I’ve seen:

oh, the bluid that brak through her skin
like a flooer frae its bud, yon bairn
that cam runnin, birlin, lauchin, skirlin
intae the faimily dance o mirth
we blew tae hell like a smirr o eldritch confetti;

andnoo I’m here, hame on the truck,
mafieres in the grund, but I canna come hame
nae mair in ma hert, for hame’snaewhaur
when yer hert’sdeid – nae langersair – juistdeid
widule and the wecht o bluidfallin like flooers,
cramasieflooers, that kill aa pain, smoor yer mind,
deid, deid, as the wheels grind.

 

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Gerda Stevenson