Chualas do ghuth sa bhalbhachd

by Màrtainn Mac an t-Saoir

Tha mi a’ toirt cudail dhomh fhìn, bhuam fhìn,
air sàillibh ’s gu bheil cloc na beatha-air-leth
a’ sìor dhol air aghaidh agus air ais
gun abhsadh is gun iochd.

Tha mi a’ toirt cudail dhomh fhìn, bhuam fhìn,
air sàillibh ’s nach eil duine eile deònach cudail a thoirt dhomh
is càraichean na beatha-air-leth a’ sgreuchail
suas is sìos air gìodharaichean mo chuid bhliadhnaichean.

Tha mi a’ toirt cudail dhomh fhìn, bhuam fhìn,
air sàillibh ’s gur e an t-earrach an geamhradh
is mise ri sleamhnadh, ’n comhair mo chinn chun an latha as giorra.

Tha mi a’ toirt cudail dhomh fhìn, bhuam fhìn,
air sàillibh ’s gu bheil mo mhàthair a’ diùltadh tadhal orm
tha i a’ cumail air astar sàbhailte ann an cladh gun Chovid 19.

Tha mi a’ toirt cudail dhomh fhìn, bhuam fhìn,
air sàillibh ’s nach mi a th’ annam tuilleadh
’s mise an tèile a tha a’ faighneachd dhìom-sa
am bu thoigh leam cudail.

Tha mi a’ toirt cudail dhomh fhìn, bhuam fhìn,
air sàillibh ’s gu bheil balt brèagha air an latha a-muigh
is an saoghal a-staigh nas duirche na bha e riamh reimhid.

Your voice was heard in the muted silence

I’m giving myself a cuddle from me
because the clock of self-isolation ticks forwards
and backwards inexorably and indiscriminately.

I’m giving myself a cuddle from me
because no-one else is willing to give me a cuddle
and the cars of self-isolation screech up and down on the gears of years.

I’m giving myself a cuddle from me
because Spring is Winter
and I’m falling heart-first towards the shortest day.

I’m giving myself a cuddle from me
because my mother refuses to visit me
she is socially-distancing in the safety of a Covid-free cemetery.

I’m giving myself a cuddle from me
because I am no longer me.
I am the other person asking me if I’d like a cuddle.

I’m giving myself a cuddle from me
because there’s beautiful daylight out now;
and much darker inside than it’s ever been.