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Tha an rathad dhachaigh on sgoil air fàs cugallach.
Tha dorchadas a' gheamhraidh gam chuartachadh.
Gach oidhche nam leabaidh ag èisteachd
ri brag
às dèidh brag
às dèidh brag;
daoine a' gal,
daoine a' sgiamhail,
urchairean a' bualadh air mo chridhe.
Tha an coibhneas agus an gràdh air a dhol à bith:
tha na peilearan air làmh an uachdair fhaighinn oirnn uile.
M' athair - cha d' fhuair e teisteanas airson a chuid shaothair;
mo mhàthair - mean air mhean
tha an gaol air a trèigsinn.
Eadar bochdainn agus losgadh tha i na h-aonar,
leatha fhèin gun ghràdh.
Ach tha i làidir.
Tha mi làidir.
Tha mi làidir an-diugh.
Bidh mi nas làidire a-màireach
air an rathad dhachaigh on chogadh.
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The road home from school has become dangerous.
Winter’s darkness envelopes me.
Each night in bed I listen
to bang
after bang
after bang;
people crying,
people screaming,
gunfire piercing my heart.
Loving kindness is now extinct:
the bullets have overpowered us all.
My father gets no credit for his efforts;
my mother – bit by bit
love has forsaken her.
Poverty and warfare have left her lonely,
abandoned, without love.
But she is strong.
I am strong.
I am strong today.
I will be stronger tomorrow
on the road home from war. |
