Some anonymous sources allege that speaking to yourself is the first sign of madness, don’t they? But having said that, what else can you do when you are totally alone and lonely? Under such circumstances, perhaps it’s the sound of your own voice resounding inside your head that keeps you sane. And then again, can you trust in the judgemental voices of those who say that you should not turn inside, nor create magical worlds full of imaginary friends, to find some comfort and avoid the cares of the every-day world? From time to time, furthermore, indulging in fantasy can help to solve perplexing problems and to reveal hidden facts. As long as the voices within, which tend to resound usually in the deepest recesses of the soul, do not mislead you, nor tempt you to do evil, can we not agree that they are harmless at least, and exceptionally useful at the best? That’s the conclusion of the contemporary shaman who believes that he has access to an alternative reality, through listening to the myriad voices inspired by particular substances and mental practices, where he can discover secrets and change the course of events.

Dear friend! I realise you don’t reply straight away, if at all, on occasions. But that’s no problem to me, I just like chatting, mate. I hope I can use such a word, but I feel like we’re friends by now. I’m sorry to start like this, I hate people who go on all the time, but I have to ask anyway, I’m not expecting you to answer, mun! And to be honest, I appreciate the chance to talk, that’s all. 

Why do they do things like this? Fighting over skin- colour, language, ethnicity? War’s Hell, and everyone’s in Hell together in this war. I’ve seen dead bodies scattered all over the ground once or twice, when a bomb’s exploded near the supermarket. Men, women, children. It’s one thing to injure and kill adults, but the things they do with the kids! I’ve always had nightmares since when I was a child myself, no-one can explain why. It’s as if something hateful had happened to me that I can’t remember, like some hellish itch I can’t scratch. Believe you me, nothing’s got better by now, and now things’re worse in the real world too! Mam has to give me something special at night that helps me go to sleep. But even then, the familiar words that separate the sides from each other despite how simple they are, keep on flowing over me – ‘factory, tvornica, fabrika, usine, fábrica, fabbrica, fabrik, fabrik, tehdas, ergostásio’ to start. 

It makes my blood boil! I’ll never kill, except I want to kill the murderers. My Dad and the other soldiers want me to do abominable things to other kids but I always refuse. They won’t be able to make me behave so badly, and Oh, I get punished terribly. I’ve almost died several times, with more of the treacherous words filling my ears – ‘riža, rice, pirinač, riz, arroz, riso, reis, ris, riisi, rýzi..’ And they mocked me awfully when I peed myself. But I’m not going off anywhere, although I want to run far away from here. I’m a survivor! I’ve been thinking about stealing the old white van, mind you, and going for a spin in it with that Viking, if he’s interested, but I’ve not decided yet. 

My Dad’s a butcher by profession, just like the old relations somewhere overseas in a town that was founded by the Vikings centuries ago I think. I’ve been reading everything about the place, especially after speaking with that Old Soldier, who’s a friend of Dad’s. He says he comes from there originally, and that it’s an incredible place to live in. He’s very experienced, professional too, my Dad, everyone likes him – on our side, I mean. They – the ones on the other side – claim he’s a real butcher by calling, though. They would do, s’pose, but he actually is a real bully.

He goes out to fight, and kill people, while Mam helps them in the hospital. He goes out in the old white fan with his gun and his knife while she gets a lift wearing her hat and her uniform, and her little upside-down watch. Dad likes his khaki military uniform too, especially the baseball cap with the picture of the flaming demon on it. I’m sorry the two of them look so tired all the time. Perhaps a bit of time off to relax in the house listening to ‘music, glazba, muzika, musique, música, musica, musik, musik, musiikki, mousikí’ would help them to feel better. 

Some people thing that the evenings are better than the days, that the darkness hides them, but no-one can avoid the sniper, that’s what Dad says. Hey, here’s how you know who’s who, even under cover of darkness. Well, after all the trial and tribulation with the Biblael Tower, by the language they use, that’s how, if they’ve got a tongue in their head anyway. Oh, ‘nogomet, football, fudbal, football, fútbol, calcio, fußball, fotboll, jalkapallo, podósfairo’ – I hate the beautiful game as a result! 

And then there was that posh lad from the other side, who’d fallen off his motorbike and the front court of the garage on the bank of the river by the pines. We knew him, y’see, ‘cos he’s mad about my dear sister, everyone’s talking about him on the sly, although he was born into a family that belongs to the World-Wide Church, on the wrong side of the tracks, and they say, our men, that he should kill himself whilst saying his fake prayers. When he refused (no surprise there, but although he’s so brave, he was swearing like the blazes, they do know some great swear-words, those lads who go to services of the Other Church!). But anyway, they were going to tar-and-feather him, those devilish cowards. 

But it was me who put a stop to all that by sidling up and pouring petrol over the floor, and then setting fire to the old place and dragging the boy off. He’s OK to tell the truth, although he’s a member of the So-Called Church. As much as anything else, I’m sure that my sister wants a bit of company from a boy. She’s a beautiful girl, after all, and everyone needs someone at their side to set the world to rights, and the other stuff too, even in a war-zone. 

He’s got blond hair, bit of Viking blood in him, p’rhaps! Very intelligent, and reads comics all the time. But he’s got lots of problems as far as I know. I imagine he’s quite fond of the old wacky-baccy, and the rest. And on top of that, he fancies my sister, something like that. I think he writes poems and sends them to her. That’s why Dad hates him. I don’t care about that, he’s really brave, I’d like to be a friend of his. How much we’d scam people!

Mate, it was like a river of fire from the Old Book, or something. It was lucky, a small miracle, that I had a box of matches that time, ‘cos I’m tryin’ to give up smokin’. Oh, Lushfé who wept when he lost the battle, they were dancing like crickets in a frying pan on a hot-plate while they tried to put out the flames. Using water, the fools! And then there was the explosion. It almost blasted both of us off to the Nw Yrth. I had concussion from an injury to the head ‘cos of that, probably. I still can’t think right. Never mind about that, I was laughing at them for hours, when I came to my senses anyway! 

I was hiding in the middle of the pine forest totally confused and covered in blood with my clothes in rags like in some old zombie film. It felt like I was wearing sack-cloth and ashes like a mucky penitent from the middle ages beseeching the Priest-in-Charge in front of the door of the House of Penitence. But I’m not a member of the World-Wide Church, mun, never mind about my friends! Lurking, that is, until they caught me, more’s the pity. I’ve got quite a collection of really nice scars from head to toe as a result of the hiding I had. But at least I wasn’t in a real sack to get beaten like the other kids, the poor dabs! I can’t understand, I hate the old devil, my Dad, but he’s only doing what he thinks is right, in a way, to put me on the right path, that is the ‘cesta, put, drum, chemin, camino, sentiero, pfad, väg, polku, monopáti.’ 

And there’s a complex word for you – ‘dad, tata, dad, babo, papa, papá, papà, papa, pappa, isä, bampás.’ Well, not the noun itself, but the feelings. I can see how hard everything is. His eyes are as black as lumps of coal, and he’s always snorting stuff from that battered tin he takes with him all over. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took it to bed. Maybe it’s got his soul in it. He’s fighting for freedom and truth, the brave old warrior. Wants to seize the land back for the future. Purify the ground. Get shot of the heathens. Save the people. Leave his mark on history. And he is brave, he’s seen awful things, he shouts about them in his sleep. 

And then there’s Mam. For her part, she can’t stop coughing, and she keeps on gulping from that silver pocket-flask. I blame all the beetles there in the filthy hospital. You can hear them scuttling through all the air-shafts, whingeing chep-er, chep-er, chep-er, day and night. And talk about vile creatures, there’s Dad’s brother, or rather, ‘the Brother’ with his cowl and dirty robe, and the prayers, and the red eyes, and the hands with their nails like claws. I’ve see him looking at me, itching to do, well, I don’t want to think about what. But I’ll do something about him, you’ll see, I’ll really fix him good and proper yet!

I go out with Mam almost every day to the shop full of empty shelves to wait in a queue outside to get rations. Things like ‘mrkva, šargarepa, carrots, carottes, zanahorias, carote, möhren, morötter, porkkanat, karóta.’ There’s not enough bread to be had anywhere -- ‘kruh, hljeb, hleb, pain, pan, pane, brot, bröd, leipä, psomí’ – there are people attacking each other to get crumbs, and there’s only a bit of fresh water too. Of course the electric’s been gone for ages, so candles are awfully important. And then again, there’s the non-stop shelling with mortars. 

It’s always raining here, even when it’s sunny, and everywhere there’s enormous holes full of blood and stagnant water, and mud. And now’n’then there’s body-parts all over the place. Really, I’ve seen ‘em, I’m not telling lies, mun! The Old Gods are Love, but it looks like love’s dead, here, anyway! In the name of Wezir, the fabled shape-shifter, I’ve been reading about him, I need to transform myself somehow or other, so I can escape. I want to fly off from the battle- field like some old raven who’s had a gutful of pain and death. But I can’t leave my home, my family, my new friend, can I? And, Oh, there’s my Mam, and my sis. I couldn’t live without them, mun! Anyway, till we meet again in our dreams (or our nightmares!), ta-ta for now, mate!

Mae sawl ffynhonnell ddienw’n honni mai arwydd cyntaf gwallgofrwydd yw siarad â’ch hunan, onid ydynt? Ond wedi dweud hynny, pa beth arall y medrwch ei wneud pan fyddwch yn hollol ar eich pen eich hun ac unig? Dan y fath amgylchiadau, efallai mai sain eich llais eich hun yn atseinio y tu mewn i’ch pen sydd yn eich cadw yn eich iawn bwyll. Ac eto i gyd, a allwch ymddiried yn lleisiau beirniadol y rhai a ddywed na ddylech droi i mewn na chreu bydoedd hudol llawn ffrindiau dychmygol i gael hyd i ryw gysur ac i osgoi gofalon y byd bob dydd? O bryd i’w gilydd, ymhellach, mae llawenychu mewn ffantasi yn gallu helpu i ddatrys problemau dyrys ac i ddatgelu ffeithiau wedi’u celu. Cyn hired ag y lleisiau oddi mewn, sydd yn tueddu i ddiasbedain fel arfer yng nghilfachau dyfnaf yr enaid, na fyddant yn eich camarwain, na’ch denu i wneud drwg, oni allwn ni gytuno eu bod yn ddiniwed o leiaf, ac yn eithriadol o ddefnyddiol ar y gorau? Dyna gasgliad y siaman cyfoes sydd yn credu bod ganddo fynediad i realiti amgen, drwy wrando ar y lleisiau fyrdd wedi’u hysbrydoli gan sylweddau neilltuol ac ymarferion meddyliol, lle y gall ddarganfod cyfrinachau a newid hynt digwyddiadau.

Annwyl ffrind! Dw i’n sylweddoli dwyt ti ddim yn ymateb yn syth, os o gwbl ar adegau. Ond ‘sdim ots ‘da fi, dim ond lico sgwrsio dw i, ‘achan. Gobeithio mod i’n gallu defnyddio’r fath air, ond dw i’n teimlo ein bod ni’n ffrindiau erbyn hyn. Mae’n chwith ‘da fi ddechrau fel hyn, dw i’n casáu pobl sy’n cwyno bob amser, ond rhaid i fi ofyn ta p’un, sa i’n disgwyl i chi ateb, w! A bod yn onest, dw i’n gwerthfawrogi’r cyfle i sgwrsio, dyna i gyd.

Pam maen nhw’n neud pethau fel ‘yn? Brwydro dros liw croen, crefydd, iaith, ethnigrwydd? Uffernol yw rhyfel, ac mae pawb yn yr Uffern gyda’i gilydd yn y rhyfel ‘ma. Dw i ‘di gweld cyrff marw wedi’u gwasgaru hyd y llawr, unwaith neu ddwy, pan fydd bom wedi ffrwydro ar byws yr archfarchnad. Dynion, menywod, plant. Un peth yw anafu a lladd oedolion, ond y pethau maen nhw’n ‘neud gyda’r cryts! Dw i wastad wedi cael hunllefau er pan o’n i’n blentyn ‘yn hunan, ‘does neb yn gallu esbonio pam. Mae fel ‘sai rhywbeth cas iawn wedi digwydd i fi dw i ddim yn gallu'i gofio, fel rhyw ysfa uffernol sa i’n gallu ei chrafu. Credwch chi fi, dyw dim byd wedi gwella bellach, a nawr mae pethau’n waeth yn y byd go iawn hefyd! Mae rhaid i Mam roi rhywbeth sbesial i fi gyda’r nos sy’n helpu fi i fynd i gysgu. Ond hyd yn oed wedyn, mae’r geiriau cyfarwydd sy’n gwahanu’r ochrau oddi wrth ei gilydd er gwaetha’ pa mor syml ydyn nhw, yn dal i lifo drosta i – ‘ffatri, tvornica, fabrika, usine, fábrica, fabbrica, fabrik, fabrik, tehdas, ergostásio’ i ddechrau.

Mae’n neud i ‘ngwaed i ferwi! Fydda i ddim yn ymladd byth ond mod i eisiau lladd y llofruddion. Mae ‘Nhad i a’r sowldiwrs eraill eisiau i fi neud pethau arswydus i gryts eraill ond dw i’n gwrthod bob amser. Fyddan nhw ddim yn gallu ‘neud i fi fihafio mor ddrwg, ac, O, dw i’n cael ‘y nghosbi’n enbyd. Bu bron i fi farw sawl gwaith, gyda mwy o’r geiriau bradwrus yn llenwi ‘nghlustiau – ‘riža, reis, pirinač, riz, arroz, riso, reis, ris, riisi, rýzi.’ Ac ro’n nhw’n ‘y ngwawdio i ar y naw pan ‘nes i bisio’n hunan. Ond sa i’n mynd bant i unman, er mod i eisiau rhedeg yn bell i ffwrdd oddi ‘ma. Goroeswr dw i! Dw i wedi bod yn meddwl am dwyn yr hen fan wen, cofiwch chi, a mynd am dro ynddi hi gyda’r Ficing ‘na ‘sai diddordeb ‘da fe, ond sa i ‘di penderfynu ‘to.

Cigydd yw ‘Nhad i wrth ei grefft, jyst fel yr hen berthnasau yn rhywle dros y môr mewn tre’ gaeth ei sefydlu gan y Ficingiaid ganrifoedd yn ôl dw i’n credu. Dw i ‘di bod yn darllen popeth am y lle, yn enwedig ar ôl siarad gyda’r Hen Filwr ‘na sy’n ffrind i Dad. Mae’n dweud fod e’n dod o ‘na’n wreiddiol, a fod e’n lle anhygoel o ddiddorol i fyw yno. Mae’n brofiadol iawn, proffesiynol hefyd, ‘Nhad, mae pawb yn lico fe – ar ein hochr ni, dw i’n feddwl. Maen nhw – y rhai ar yr ochr arall – yn honni taw bwtsier ydy’n wir wrth ei alwedigaeth, er ‘ny. Dyna beth a ‘nelen nhw, sbo, ond bwli go iawn ydy’n wir.

Bydd e’n mynd i frwydro, a lladd pobl, wrth i Mam helpu nhw yn yr ysbyty. Mae’n mynd mas yn yr hen fan wen gyda’i gwn a’i gyllell tra mae hi’n cael lifft gan wisgo ei het, a’i wisg, a’i watsh fach ben i waered. Mae Dad yn lico’i lifrai milwrol caci hefyd, yn enwedig y cap pêl-fas ac arno lun o gythraul fflamllyd. Mae’n flin ‘da fi fod y ddau ohonyn nhw’n edrych mor flinedig drwy’r amser. Falle taw tipyn bach o saib i ymlacio yn y tŷ’n gwrando ar ‘gerddoriaeth, glazba, muzika, musique, música, musica, musik, musik, musiikki, mousikí’ fyddai’n helpu nhw i deimlo’n well.

Mae rhai pobl yn meddwl bod y nosweithiau’n well na’r dyddiau, bod y tywyllwch yn cuddio nhw, ond ‘does neb yn gallu osgoi’r saethwyr cudd, dyna beth mae Dad yn ddweud. Hei, dyma sut dych chi’n nabod pwy yw pwy, hyd yn oed o dan lenni’r nos. Wel, ar ôl yr holl drafferth a helynt gyda Tŵr Biblael, drwy’r iaith maen nhw’n defnyddio, dyna sut, os bydd tafod yn eu ceg ta be’. O, ‘nogomet, pêl-droed, fudbal, football, fútbol, calcio, fußball, fotboll, jalkapallo, podósfairo’ – dw i’n casáu’r gêm brydferth o ganlyniad!

A dyna oedd y llanc posh ‘na o’r ochr arall oedd wedi cwympo oddi ar ei fotor-beic ar gwrt blaen y garej ar lan yr afon ar bwys y pinwydd. Ro’n ni’n nabod e, ch’wel, achos fod e’n gwirioni ar ‘yn annwyl chwaer; mae pawb yn sôn amdano fe ar y slei, er iddo fe gael ei eni i deulu sy’n perthyn i’r Eglwys Fyd-Eang ym mhen tlotaf y dref, ac maen nhw’n dweud, ein dynion ni, fe ddylai fe ladd ei hunan wrth adrodd ei weddïau ffug. Pan wrthododd e (dim syndod yno, ond er fod e mor ddewr, roedd e’n rhegi fel tincer, gw’bod rhai llwon gwych mae’r llanciau ‘na sy’n mynd i wasanaethau’r Eglwys Arall!). Ond ta be’, ro’n nhw’n mynd i ddodi tar a phlu arno fe, y cachgwn o gythreuliaid.

Ond fi roddodd ben ar hynny oll drwy sleifio lan ac arllwys petrol dros y llawr, ac wedyn tanio’r hen le a llusgo’r boi ymaith. Mae’n iawn a dweud y gwir, er fod e’n aelod o’r Eglwys Bondigrybwyll. Gymaint ag unrhyw beth arall, dw i’n siŵr bod y chwaer angen tipyn bach o gwmni gan lanc. Merch brydferth yw hi wedi’r cwbl, ac mae pawb angen rhywun ar eu hochr nhw i roi’r byd yn ei le, a ‘neud stwff arall hefyd, hyd yn oed mewn cylchfa ryfel.

Gwallt golau sy ‘da fe, tipyn bach o waed Ficingaidd ynddo fe, falle! Deallus iawn, ac yn darllen comics drwy’r amser. Ond mae llawer o broblemau ‘da fe hyd y gwn i. Dw i’n dychmygu fod e’n eitha’ hoff o’r hen fwg drwg, a’r gweddill. Ac ar ben ‘ny, mae e’n ffansïo’n chwaer i, rhywbeth fel ‘na. Dw i’n credu fod e’n ‘sgrifennu cerddi ac yn hala nhw iddi hi. Dyna pam mae Dad yn gasáu fe. ‘Sdim ots ‘da fi am ‘ny, mae’n reit ddewr, licwn i fod yn ffrind iddo fe. Cymaint o gastiau fydden ni’n chwarae ar bawb!

‘Achan, roedd fel afon o ddŵr o’r Hen Lyfr neu rywbeth. Roedd yn lwcus, yn wyrth fach, roedd bocs o fatsis ‘da fi bryd ‘ny achos mod i’n trio rhoi’r gorau i ‘smygu. O, Lushfé a wylai o golli’r frwydr, ro’n nhw’n dawnsio fel crics mewn padell ffrio ar blât poeth wrth drio diffodd y fflamiau. Gan ddefnyddio dŵr, y ffyliaid! Ac yna roedd y ffrwydrad. Bu bron iddo fe hyrddio ni'n dau bant i’r Nw Yrth. Ges i gyfergyd o ana’ i’r pen o achos hynny, siŵr o fod. Sa i’n gallu meddwl reit o hyd. Waeth befo am ‘ny, chwerthin am eu pennau nhw i gyd am oriau o’n i, pan ddes i at ‘y nghoed ta be'!

Ro’n i’n cuddio ynghanol y goedwig binwydd wedi 'nrysu’n llwyr ac yn waed i gyd gyda 'nillad yn rhacs fel mewn rhyw hen ffilm sombi. Fe deimlai fel ‘swn i’n gwisgo sachlen a lludw fel penydiwr bawlyd o’r canol oesoedd yn crefu ar yr Offeiriad mewn Gofal tu blaen i ddrws Tŷ Edifeirwch. Ond nage aelod o’r Eglwys Fyd-Eang ‘mo fi, w, hidiwch befo am ‘yn ffrindiau! Llechu, hynny yw, nes iddyn nhw ‘nhal i, gwaetha’r modd. Mae ‘da fi ryw gasgliad o greithiau neis iawn o’r corun i’r sawdl o ganlyniad i’r gurfa ges i. Ond o leia’ do’n i’m mewn sach go iawn i gael ‘y nghuro fel y cryts eraill, y pŵr dabs â nhw! Sa i’n gallu deall, dw i’n casáu’r hen ddiawl, ‘y Nhad, ond mae e’n neud dim ond beth mae’n feddwl yn dda, i’n rhoi i ar ben y ffordd, hynny yw, y ‘cesta, put, drum, chemin, camino, sentiero, pfad, väg, polku, monopáti.’

A dyna air cymhleth i chi, te – ‘dad, tata, tad, babo, papa, papá, papà, papa, pappa, isä, bampás.’ Wel, nage’r enw ei hunan ond y teimladau. Dw i’n medru gweld pa mor anodd yw popeth. Mae’i lygaid mor ddu â lympiau o lo, ac mae wastad yn ffroeni stwff o’r tun tolciog mae’n dod â fe o bant i dalar. Synnwn i’m ‘sai fe’n mynd â fe i’r gwely. Falle fod e’n cynnwys ei enaid. Brwydro dros ryddid a gwirionedd mae e, yr hen wrol ryfelwr. Eisiau cipio’r wlad yn ôl i’r dyfodol. Puro’r tir. Cael gwared ar y paganiaid. Achub y werin. Gadael ei farc ar hanes. Ac mae e yn ddewr, mae e ‘di gweld pethau ofnadw’, mae’n gweiddi amdanyn nhw yn ei gwsg.

Ac wedyn dyna Mam. O’i rhan hi, dyw hi ddim yn gallu peidio pesychu, ac mae hi’n dal i lowcio o’r fflasg boced o arian ‘na. Dw i’n bwrw’r bai ar yr holl chwilod yno yn y ‘sbyty brwnt. Ti’n gallu clywed nhw’n sgrialu drwy’r siafftiau awyr oll, gan gwyno chep-er, chep-er, chep-er ddydd a nos. A sôn am greaduriaid ffiaidd, dyna frawd Dad, neu yn hytrach ‘y Brawd’ gyda’r cwcwll a mantell front, a’r gweddïau, a’r llygaid coch, a’r dwylo ac arnyn nhw ewinedd fel crafangau. Dw i’n weld e’n edrych arna i, gan ysu i ‘neud, wel, sa i eisiau meddwl am beth. Ond fe fydda i’n ‘neud rhywbeth yn ei gylch e, gewch chi weld, fe fydda i’n rhoi rhawaid o halen yn ei botes e ‘to!

Dw i’n mynd mas gyda Mam bron bob dydd i’r siop lawn silffoedd gwag i aros mewn ciw tu mas i gael dognau. Pethau fel ‘mrkva, šargarepa, moron, carottes, zanahorias, carote, möhren, morötter, porkkanat, karóta.’ ‘Sdim digon o fara i’w gael yn unman – ‘kruh, hljeb, hleb, pain, pan, pane, brot, bröd, leipä, psomi’ – mae pobl yn ymosod ar ei gilydd i gael briwsion, a dim ond ychydig o ddŵr ffres sydd hefyd. Wrth gwrs mae’r trydan wedi mynd ers achau, felly mae canhwyllau’n bwysig ofnadw’. Ac eto i gyd dyna’r sielio di- stop gan fortarau.

Mae hi wastad yn bwrw glaw yma, hyd yn oed pan fydd yn heulog, ac ym mhob man mae tyllau enfawr llawn gwaed, a dŵr marwaidd, a llaid. Ac o bryd i’w gilydd mae aelodau’r corff ar draws ac ar hyd. Yn wir, dw i wedi gweld nhw, dw i’m yn dweud celwyddau, w! Cariad yw’r Hen Dduwiau, ond mae’n edrych fel ‘sai cariad wedi marw, yn fan ‘yn o leia’. ‘Neno Wezir, y newidiwr ffurf chwedlonol, dw i ‘di bod yn darllen amdano, dw i angen trawsffurfio’n hunan rywsut neu’i gilydd, fel y galla i ddianc. Dw i eisiau hedfan bant o faes y gad fel rhyw hen gigfran sy’ di cael llond ei bol ar boen a thranc. Ond sa i’n gallu gadael ‘y nghartre’, ‘y nheulu, ‘yn ffrind newydd, alla i? O, a dyna’n Mam, a’r chwaer. Ni allwn i fyw hebddyn nhw, w! Ta be’, nes i ni gwrdd unwaith ‘to yn ein breuddwydion (neu’n hunllefau!), ta-ta tan toc, mêt!