Poem By Győző Ferencz
Lookit roond and didnae find it
I byde ayont my mairches: I maun sairve
An empire and a folk that's no my kind.
I dinnae ken their leid, forby their weys
Scunner me. My schulin disnae bind
Mysel ti their tradeition. I'm no kneelin
Ti their gods, I dinnae keep their Sabbaths either.
Their law's a kirkyaird o deid prose. I'm tint
In the tousie wab o systems. As fir siller,
It's its ain law and logic apairt frae trade.
Vertue's nae mair nor the unco-guid bangin on.
Shair, i'm officiallie o 'fixed abode'
But I canna faddom hou I reached this laund.
No fleein unner a pile o manky claes
In the back o a lorry; I've no been nabbed at the border;
Naewhaur ti send me back, nane here ti claim me;
My passport and my papers are in order.
I can bugger-aff whan it suits me, fir a cheenge
O air; there's mebbe opportunitie
In anither airt like this or near eneuch;
I cuid tak on dual nationalitie
No ti return, like, cept fir a brek.
But ach! I'll no cuid cross my ain frontiers,
I'll never see my unmapped territour
I'd stertit frae, and ettled at fir years.
It's sneckit fast ti me fir aye. My thocht
Cannae caa up its sun, its starns, its dreich terrains
Frae green to blae cheengin throu the haar,
The toun's touers and causey-stanes.
I dinnae ken whit zone it's in, if folk
Are bydin there. Nae pynt gin I wad seek
Bein understuid bi thame. Their deein leid
Wad never be as my ain mither-speik.
My dreams tell naethin that can be decodit.
Gin my warld mirkens, and I faa in the streets,
No God himself was ken my passport photie
Taped and washed in the back-pouch o my breeks.
And while my sark's oot dryin on the line
Forenent the unlozened windae, shair eneuch
I lie bare-scuddie on my metal bunk
Govin at the fag-end gobbed up at the roof.