CÂN Y GWNEUTHURWR MAPIAU

Nid gofal cariad sy'n y ddogfen hon
a lunia'n fanwl gywir, fae wrth fae,
arfordir Cymru, dangos twr pob llan,
nodi enw pob afon, fel pe bai
gras mewn cywirdeb. Defnyddiais fy ngwaith
i'm hachub rhag harddwch y llethrau llym,
eu dieneidio â symbolau ffaith.
Nid oes hiraeth mewn creigiau - dim ond grym
goroesi'r tywydd a malurio glân
y gro a'r graean at y llaid di-hid.
'Rwy'n parhau i lafurio - fel rhyw dduw
heb ddawn maddeuant, yn syrffedu'n lân
ar ailddarlunio'r un hen fan o hyd.
Ers pryd bu prydferthwch yn fodd i fyw?

THE MAPMAKER'S SONG

It's no labour of love, this document
that faithfully depicts, bay by bay,
the coast of Wales, showing each church tower,
noting every river's name, as if grace
might dwell in minutiae. I drew my lines
to save me from the harsh slope's dazzlement,
disarming their souls with factual signs.
There's no longing in rocks - only power
to outlast weathers that cleanse and abrase,
grinding gravel and grit to a mindless mud.
I go on labouring - just like some god
who's impotent because he can't forgive,
re-drawing endlessly the same old place.
Since when has beauty been a way to live?

Translated by Richard Poole