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Tha mi nam shuidhe ag èisdeachd ribh
agus tha mo chridh’ a’ tuigsinn
barrachd na mo chlaisneachd;
’s mo shùilean a’ toirt a-steach
barrachd na mo chluasan.
Ur guth sèimh, ur cainnt
ag èirigh ’s a’ tuiteam mar thonn
air aghaidh fhuar a’ chuain
’s an dràst’ ’s a-rithist a’ briseadh
air creag bhiorach cuimhne;
’s an sàl a’ tighinn gu bàrr
ann an glas-chuan ur sùilean.
“Bha e air an ròp
an uair a bhris e ...”
Agus bhris ur cridhe cuideachd
le call an ròpa chalma
air an robh grèim gràidheil agaibh
fhad’ ’s a bha sibh a’ sreap suas
nur leanabh.
Agus, aig aois deich bliadhna,
cha robh agaibh ach cuimhne air a’ chreig
a bhiodh gur cumail còmhnard;
’s gach dòchas a bha nur sùilean
air a bhàthadh tron oidhch’ ud,
’s tro gach Bliadhn’ Ur a lean.
Chàirich iad a’ chreag
agus dh’fhàg sin toll.
Chruadhaich an sàl ur beatha
agus chùm e am pian ùr;
agus dh’fhuirich e nur sùilean
cho goirt ’s a bha e riamh;
agus tha pian na caillich
cho geur ri pian na nighinn,
agus tha ur cridhe
a’ briseadh às ùr
a’ cuimhneachadh ur h-athar.
“... oir bha athair agam ...”
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I sit listening to you
and my heart understands
more than my hearing;
and my eyes absorb
more than my ears.
Your soft voice, your speech
rising and falling like waves
on the cold surface of the sea,
and now and again breaking
on the sharp rock of memory;
and the brine rises up
in the grey seas of your eyes.
“He was on the rope
when it broke...”
And your heart also broke
with the loss of the sturdy rope
which you had clung to lovingly
while you were growing up
as a child
And, at ten years of age,
you had only a memory of the rock
that used to keep you straight;
and every hope that was in your eyes
was drowned on that night
and through each New Year that followed.
They buried the rock
and that left a hole;
the salt hardened your life
and kept the pain fresh;
and it stayed in your eyes
as stinging as it ever was;
and the old woman's pain is
as keen as the girls's,
and your heart breaks anew
remembering your father.
“...because I had a father...”
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