Il diario di Bobby Sands | The diary of Bobby Sands

Venerdì 13 marzo 1981

Non sono superstizioso e oggi è stata una giornata priva di qualsiasi evento. Tutto considerato mi sento bene e il mio peso è di 58,5 chili. Oggi non mi sono sentito troppo stanco, ma la schiena ogni tanto mi duole a star seduto sul letto. Non ho ricevuto l’«Irish News», il che mi fa pensare che ci debba essere qualcosa che non vogliono che legga, ma non importa. Stasera è passato per pochi minuti padre Murphy.

I secondini hanno frugato rapidamente nella cella quando sono uscito a prendermi l’acqua. Non fanno che ficcanasare. Ho sentito dire che hanno picchiato degli uomini mentre li trasferivano dall’H6 a un altro Blocco.

Non cambia mai niente, qui dentro.

Seán McKenna (44) è tornato nell’H4. Sembra un po’ scosso, ma e vivo e si sta riprendendo. Auguriamoci che si rimetta completamente.

(Mhúscail mé leis an gealbháin ar maidin agus an t-aon smaointe amháin i mo cheann – seo chugat lá eile a Roibeard. Cuireann é sin amhran a scríobh mé; bhfad ó shin i ndúil domsa.

Seo é cib é ar bith.

D’ éirigh mé ar maidin mar a tháinig an coimheádóir,

Bhuail sé mo dhoras go trom’s gan labhairt.

Dhearc mé ar na ballai, ‘S shíl mé nach raibh mé beo,

Tchítear nach n-imeoidh an t-iffrean seo go deo.

D’oscail an doras ‘s níor druideadh é go ciúin,

Ach ba chuma ar bith mar nach raibheamar inár suan.

Chuala mé éan ‘s ni fhaca mé geal an lae,

Is mian mór liom go raibh me go doimhin foai,

Ca bhfuil mo smaointi ar laethe a chuaigh romhainn,

S cá bhfuil an tsaol a smaoin mé abhí sa domhain,

Ni chluintear mo bhéic, ‘s ní fheictear mar a rith mo dheor,

Nuair a thigeann ar lá aithíocfaidh mé iad go mor.)

[Canaim é sin leis an phort Siun Ní Dhuibir.]

(Mi sono svegliato con i passeri, questa mattina, e l’unico pensiero che avevo in testa era: ecco un altro giorno, Bobby – e questo mi ha fatto ricordare una canzone che avevo scritto tanto tempo fa.

Eccola:

“Mi sono svegliato al sopraggiungere del secondino,

Ha bussato forte alla mia porta senza una parola.

Ho guardato il muro e ho creduto di essere morto,

Sembra che questo inferno non finisca mai.

La porta si aprì e non la richiusero piano,

Ma non importava, tanto nessuno dormiva.

Ho udito un uccello ma non ho visto la luce dell’alba,

Volesse il cielo che fossi già sprofondato sotto terra.

Dove sono i pensieri del tempo che fu,

E dov’è la vita che un tempo credevo esistesse?

Il mio grido non viene raccolto e le mie lacrime scorrono ignorate.

Quando verrà il nostro giorno me la pagheranno cara.)

[La canto con la musica di “Siun Ní Dhuibhir”. ]

(Bhí na héinini ag ceiliúracht inniú. Chaith ceann de na buachailli aràn amach as an fhuinneog, ar a laghád bhí duine éigin ag ithe. Uaigneach abhí mé ar feadh tamaill ar tráthnóna beag inniú ag éisteacht leis na préacháin ag screadáil agus ag teacht abhaile daobhtha. Dà gcluinfinn an fhuiseog àlainn, bhrisfeadh sí mo chroí.

Anois mar a scrfobhaim tá an corr crothar ag caoineadh mar a théann siad tharam. Is maith liom na héiníní.

Bhuel caithfidh mé a dul mar mà scrfobhaim nfos mó ar na héiníní seo beidh mo
dheora ag rith ‘s rachaidh mo smaointí ar ais chuig, an t-am nuair a bhi mé i mo ógánach, b’iad na laethanta agus iad imithe go deo anois, ach thaitin siad liom agus ar a laghad ml dearmad déanta agam orthu, ta siad i mo chrof – oíche mhaith anois.)

(Oggi gli uccelli cantavano. Uno dei ragazzi ha lanciato loro del pane dalla finestra. Che almeno qualcuno mangi!

Mi sono sentito un po’ solo, stasera, mentre ascoltavo il gracchiare dei corvi che tornavano alle proprie case. Se udissi il canto della splendida allodola mi si spezzerebbe il cuore. Adesso, mentre scrivo, il chiurlo li chiama con voce lugubre mentre passano volando. Mi piacciono gli uccelli.

Ecco, devo smettere, perché se scrivo ancora sugli uccelli mi scendono le lacrime e il pensiero torna ai giorni della mia giovinezza.

Quelli sì ch’erano giorni – finiti per sempre, ormai. Però me li sono goduti. Me li porto nel cuore. Buona notte, adesso.)

Friday 13th March 1981

I’m not superstitious, and it was an uneventful day today. I feel all right, and my weight is 58.5 kgs.

I was not so tired today, but my back gets sore now and again sitting in the bed. I didn’t get the Irish News, which makes me think there is probably something in it that they don’t wish me to see, but who cares. Fr Murphy was in tonight for a few minutes.

The Screws had a quick look around my cell today when I was out getting water. They are always snooping. I heard reports of men beaten up during a wing shift …

Nothing changes here.

Sean McKenna (the former hunger-striker) is back in H-4, apparently still a bit shaky but alive and still recovering, and hopefully he will do so to the full.

Mhúscail mé leis an gealbháin ar maidin agus an t-aon smaointe amháin i mo cheann – seo chugat lá eile a Roibeard. Cuireann é sin amhran a scríobh mé; bhfad ó shin i ndúil domsa.

Seo é cib é ar bith.

D’ éirigh mé ar maidin mar a tháinig an coimheádóir,

Bhuail sé mo dhoras go trom’s gan labhairt.

Dhearc mé ar na ballai, ‘S shíl mé nach raibh mé beo,

Tchítear nach n-imeoidh an t-iffrean seo go deo.

D’oscail an doras ‘s níor druideadh é go ciúin,

Ach ba chuma ar bith mar nach raibheamar inár suan.

Chuala mé éan ‘s ni fhaca mé geal an lae,

Is mian mór liom go raibh me go doimhin foai,

Ca bhfuil mo smaointi ar laethe a chuaigh romhainn,

S cá bhfuil an tsaol a smaoin mé abhí sa domhain,

Ni chluintear mo bhéic, ‘s ní fheictear mar a rith mo dheor,

Nuair a thigeann ar lá aithíocfaidh mé iad go mor.

Canaim é sin leis an phort Siun Ní Dhuibir.

Translated this reads as follows:

I awoke with the sparrows this morning and the only thought in my head was: here comes another day, Bobby — reminding me of a song I once wrote a long time ago.

This is it anyway:

I arose this morning as the Screw came,

He thumped my door heavily without speaking,

I stared at the walls, and thought I was dead,

It seems that this hell will never depart.

The door opened and it wasn’t closed gently,

But it didn’t really matter, we weren’t asleep.

I heard a bird and yet didn’t see the dawn of day,

Would that I were deep in the earth.

Where are my thoughts of days gone by,

And where is the life I once thought was in the world.

My cry is unheard and my tears flowing unseen,

When our day comes I shall repay them dearly.

I sing this to the tune Siun Ní Dhuibir.

Bhí na heiníní ag ceiliúracht inniú. Chaith ceann de na buachaillí arán amach as an fhuinneog, ar a leghad bhí duine éigin ag ithe. Uaigneach abhí mé ar feadh tamaill ar tráthnóna beag inniú ag éisteacht leis na préacháin ag screadáil agus ag teacht abhaile daobhtha. Dá gcluinfinn an fhuiseog álainn, brisfeadh sí mo chroí.

Anois mar a scríobhaim tá an corrcrothar ag caoineadh mar a théann siad tharam. Is maith liom na heiníní.

Bhuel caithfidh mé a dul mar má scríobhain níos mó ar na heiníní seo beidh mo dheora ag rith ‘s rachaidh mo smaointi ar ais chuig, an t-am nuair abhí mé ógánach, b’iad na laennta agus iad imithe go deo anois, ach thaitin siad liom agus ar a laghad níl dearmad deánta agam orthu, ta siad i mo chroí — oíche mhaith anois.

(Translated, this reads as follows:)

The birds were singing today. One of the boys threw bread out of the window. At least somebody was eating!

I was lonely for a while this evening, listening to the crows caw as they returned home. Should I hear the beautiful lark, she would rent my heart. Now, as I write, the odd curlew mournfully calls as they fly over. I like the birds.

Well, I must leave off, for if I write more about the birds my tears will fall and my thoughts return to the days of my youth.

They were the days, and gone forever now. But I enjoyed them. They are in my heart — good night, now.