Y Gystadleuaeth Lenyddol, gan Franz Kafka
Roedd yr awyr yn llwyd, ac roedd y planhigion i gyd wedi marw. Dechreuais lenwi’r ffurflen ar gyfer y gystadleuaeth lenyddol. Roedd y ffurflen yn un hir, ddiflas. Collais obaith ac agor pac o selsig.
Anfonais y ffurflen at yr Esgob. Daeth hi’n ôl. Roedd camgymeriadau arni. Tro ar ôl tro, cywirais y camgymeriadau. Tro ar ôl tro, daeth hi’n ôl, â chamgymeriad newydd wedi’i farcio.
A dyma fi, nawr, yn dal yn ceisio cwblhau’r ffurflen. Mae’r terfyn amser wedi hedfan heibio. Dw i’n cywiro fy ffurflen, ei phostio hi, mae hi’n mynd i’r Esgob, ac mae hi’n dod yn ôl, yn yr un amlen. Rhaid bod hi wedi teithio cannoedd o filltiroedd erbyn hyn.
Darllenwr annwyl, llosgwch y ddogfen hon, os gwelwch yn dda.
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The sky was grey, and the plants were all dead. I started filling out the form for the literary competition. The form was a long, tedious one. I lost hope and opened a pack of sausages.
I sent the form to the Bishop. It came back. There were mistakes on it. Time and again, I corrected the mistakes. Time and again, it came back, with a new mistake marked.
And here I am, now, still trying to complete the form. The deadline has flown past. I correct the form, post it, it goes to the Bishop, and it comes back, in the same envelope. It must have travelled hundreds of miles by now.
Dear reader, please burn this document.
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