Làmh ri Glèidheadh / Hand to Hold

By Marcas Mac an Tuairneir

Làmh ri Glèidheadh


Tha cuimhne leam an là
chum thu mo làmh na do làimh-s’,
’s sinn air coiseachd an àrd-shràid
bhon fhlat agam dhan bhaile.


Thuirt thu air an là sin: “’S dòch’
gur sinn an fheadhainn neartmhor,
oir ma chì ògannach gèidh sinn,
chì e gu bheil e ceart gu leòr.”


“OK”, ars mise, dòchasach,
gun cumadh tu i an comhnaidh,
ach cha do chum thu riamh a-rithist i,
is chum thu do làmhan-sa nad phoca.


“OK”, ars mi rium fhìn, an uairsin,
is dh’fheuch mi cruaidh do thuigsinn,
an dòchas cun cumadh tu mo làmh,
an dùil gun dh’ionnsaichinn foghidinn. 


Mu dheireadh, rinn thu ar dealachadh
is thog mi slighe eile;
bhon uairsin riamh an dòchas
ri làmh eile a ghlèidheadh.


Thuig mi air an oidhche sin,
gun tigeamaid gu crìch; 
cha b’ e mo nàire-s’ a dh’fhairich 
mi ach an nàire bha nad chridh’.


 


Hand to Hold


I remember the first day
you held my hand in your own
as we walked along the highstreet
from my flat into town.


You said to me that day:
“maybe we’re the strong ones,
because a young gay man might see this
and might know this isn’t wrong.”


“OK”, I said, forever hopeful
you would always hold my hand,
but you never did again
and in your pocket yours remained.


“OK”, I said, then, to myself,
and tried hard to understand,
took the exercise in patience,
hoped your hand-hold might return.


Eventually, you made your break,
I took a different course;
from then on I have been hopeful
to hold a different hand from yours.


I understood that very evening,
that it would come to a conclusion;
because it wasn’t my shame I felt
but your own, in your foundations.


personal rebellion, individuality