Litir gun t-Saighdear gun ainm

An Gearan, 1917

A Shaighdeir, mo ghràidh,

Tha mi nam laighe fo chabair na h-àirigh,
Leis na mìrean-sàibh a’ snàmh
Tro thaisead an t-samhraidh.

Far a laigheamaid, blàth, bog le chèile,
Bho chiaradh gu càinealachadh an là.
Ar leam, an laigh thu nad bhuncair,
Fhad ’s a thilgear sligean, aig astar,
Is do chridhe, mar stob reòite,
A’ bualadh ri gach blosg is brag.

Ach san t-solas-brèige, is mi
’Dùnadh mo shùilean, saoil,
Am mothaich thu cuimhne
Criomadh mo chorragan;
An-sin air do chluasan.

Mar a mhothaicheas mise
Mìr-sàimh air mo ghruaidhean,
Is fàileadh co-thràth an fheòir.

An Giblean, 1917

A Shaighdeir, mo ghràidh,

An gabh thu eagal ron an leadraigeadh?
Is do bhodhaig air a stialladh,
Le gach srac na cuip.

Mar sin, an e do chridhe
A gheibh an grèidheadh?
Is tu ga fhàgail,
Brùite bhon bhigearachd
Eadar bràithrean a’ bhlàir.

Le gach buille brosnachail,
Air do dhruim no do ghuallan,
Bho làmh tapaidh do ghualleir,
Do shàirdseint, no do chòirneil;

An laigh an làmh sin trom
Mar a’ chrann aig Ìosa ar Tighearna,
A ghiulain e tron phaisean,
Gun sgurr lom Chalbharaigh?

No a bheil e fìor,
Gu bheil a’ chamaraderie,
Cho fialaidh
Is an cogadh na chothromaiche?

An Cèiteann, 1917

A Shaighdeir, mo ghràidh,

An gabh thu ris a’ Ghearmailtis?

A bheil do chainnt na chòd,
Cruinnichte eadar osna is caog?

Rùnach riaghlaichte;
Na teachdaireachdan dìomhair,
A’ sgiathadh eadar peilearan,
Sa cheò.

Ochòn.

’S e cànan nach gabh ris
An tìr-ghràdhadh, sin.

Ars Belling, gur thu
Ceap coireachaidh.

Chan eil ann ach
A’ chaoile ghorm.

Bellum.
Bellum.
Bellum.

Belli.
Bello.
Bella.

An t-Iuchair, 1917

Chunna mi an-diugh iad,
An fheadhainn, sa chiudha.

An fheadhainn le
Car nan glùinean,
Na lùgairean,
Na h-òthaisgean.

Is mi fhìn aig a’ chùl,
A’ creicealaich ’s a’ crìth,
Mar choirce-circe.

Le mo shìol claon,
Nach gin a’chlann;
Eu-comasach
Air còmhrag is combaid.

An Sultain, 1917

A Shaighdeir, mo ghràidh,

Saoil, an seachain thu,
Mar a sheachnas mise,
A’ bhrìgh na fighe trom fhacail.

Tha an àirigh mar chlais
An achaidh treabhte
Is am prìomh-bhàrr air
A bhearradh is a bhuain.

Saoil, am feith thu,
Mar a dh’fheitheas mise,
Is tu tilleadh am bliadhna,
No an ath-bhliadhna.

Bho bhlàr a’ bhuachair,
Na fala, nan sloc.
Far nach blàth dìtheanan ar dìomhair,
Ann an uaigh nan ablach,
Far nach faicear ach blàth nam bodach.

An t-Samhain, 1917

A Shaighdeir, mo ghràidh,

Is do chàraid, an t-oifigear.

An dàrnaig e do stocainnean?

Am bogaich e d’ fho-lèine
Ma ghànraicheas air an oidhche tu i?

A bheil an fheusag air a smig,
Cho mìn ri pluic do mhàthar?

Is toil leatha
Na Faodalaich,
Na h-èisleanaich,
Na cianalaich.

Tha bàidh e aice,
Ro bhalaich beaga, brèagha,
Cuideachd.

Am Faoilleach, 1918

A Shaighdeir, mo ghràidh,

A bheil sneachda sna trainnsean,
Mar a laigheas air mullach na h-àirigh,
Far am faigh thu mi, leam fhìn,
Is samhradh do chuimhne gam
Fhàgail gun ach fuachd a’ gheamraidh.

Tron doras fhuair mi iteag bheag bhàn;
Samhla mo ghealtachd,
Nach falbh le sruth na gaoith’.

Chan urrainn dhomh ach feitheamh
Ri briseadh na dìle,
Gus mo nàire a sguabadh air falbh.

Ann sgeamhad mo sgamhan
Fairichidh mi teas na h-aimsir mhoralta;
Ar gaol,
Mar ghainmheach san eàrra.
Na fhuill is na fhallas, na
Phlosgadh mar leòinte Ghallipoli.

Am Màirt, 1918

A shaighdeir, mo ghràidh.

Tha an tìr a’ tilleadh gu torrachas,
Is gasan an fheòir,
A’ dannsadh ris a’ ghaoith.

Thathar ag ràdh,
Gun tig caochladh air
An t-saoghal.

Gun cuir am brìosan,
Car anns a’ chogadh.

Is nuair a thilleas thu don àirigh,
Lorgaidh mo chorrag
Loidhne, ann an lag
Do chnàmh-droma.

Is bidh mi coma.
Ma mhaireas sinn
Tro thùrlach na h-iutharna,
Cuireamaid fàilte air
Cruinne ùr.

Is mise, le foighdinn,
Le gràdhadh is gaol,

A’ feitheamh riut,
San àirigh,

Do bhràmair, gun ainm.

Translation: Letter to the Unknown Soldier

February, 1917

Soldier, my love,

I lie beneath the beams of the ceiling,
With the specks of sawdust
Floating through the summer’s humidity.

Where we would lie, warm, moist together,
From sunset to sunrise.
I wonder, do you like in your bunker,
As they cast shells, far off,
And your heart, like an icicle,
Beating with every boom and bang.

But in the half-light, as
I close my eyes, I surmise,
If the memory moves you,
The tickle of my fingers;
There on your ears.

As it moves me,
The sawdust on my cheeks
And the smell of the hay and the dawn.

April, 1917

Solider, my love,

Do you fear a leathering?
And your body streaked,
With each strike of the whip.

So is it your heart
That gets the beating?
As you leave it,
Bruised from the bickering
Between brothers in arms.

With every fraternal slap
On the back or the shoulder,
From the hearty hand of your comrade,
Your sergeant, or your colonel;

Does that hand lie heavy
Like the cross of Jesus our Lord,
That he carried through the passion,
To the naked peak of Cavlary.

Or is it true,
That cameraderie
Is so bountiful
And the war an equaliser?

May, 1917

Soldier, my love,

Do you concern yourself with German?

Is your cant a code,
Accumulated between winks and whispers?

Regimented cipher;
The secret missives,
Flying through the bullets,
In the mist.

Alas.

It’s a language incompatible
With the patriot, that.

Said Belling, that
You’re the scapegoat.

Nought to see
But failure.

Bellum.
Bellum.
Bellum.

Belli.
Bello.
Bella.

An t-Iuchair, 1917

I saw them today,
The few in the queue.

The few with
Bandy legs,
The knock-need,
The simpletons.

And myself at the end,
Wheezing and jittering,
Like quaking-grass.

With my deformed seed
That won’t beget;
Incapable
Of combat and conflict.

September, 1917

Soldier, my love,

I wonder, do you hide,
As I do,
The meaning knit between my words.

The sheiling is like a furrow,
Of a ploughed field
And the crop
Is shorn and gathered.

I wonder, do you wait,
As I do,
For your return, next year,
Or the next.

From the war or ordure,
The blood, the pits.
Where are secret never blooms
In the sepulchre of corpses,
Where only the poppy grows.

November, 1917

Soldier, my love,

And your friend, the officer.

Does he darn your stockings?

Does he steep your undershirt
When you soil it in the night?

Is his bearded chin,
As soft as the cheek of your mother?

She likes
The waistrels,
The wounded,
The homesick.

She can’t resist,
A lovely young boy
Either.

January, 1918

Soldier, my love,

Is there snow in the trenches,
Like that, lying on the roof od the shieling,
Where you’ll find me
And the summer of your memory,
Abandoned to the cold of winter.

Through the door I received a tiny, white feather;
A symbol of my cowardice
With will not dissipate with the wind.

I can only wait
For the torrent to break,
To sweep my shame away.

In the hacking of my lungs
I feel the heat of the moral climate;
Our love,
Like sand in the wound.

Bleeding and sweating,
Palpitating like the wounded of Gallipoli.

March, 1918

Soldier, my love,

The land returns to fecundity,
And the blades of grass
Dance in the wind.

They say,
That change will come
To the world.

That the breeze,
Will shift the war.

And when you return to the shieling,
My finger will trace
A line,
In the dimple of your spine.

And I won’t care a fig.
If we can live
Through the fires of hell,
Let’s welcome
A new world.

Yours, patiently,
With affection and love,

Waiting
In the shieling,

Your lover, unamed.

--------------------------------------------

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