Sèid

by Iain MacRàth

Faodaidh  tu sèideadh,                     
faodaidh tu èigheachd le sgràill is beuc bho do sgraing.      
Fad feasgar is oidhch, thu fhathast ri burralaich,         
gun ach rànail, gèire, turramanaich,                  
a’ bagradh le buille is cainnt.            
 
Thig turadh. 
Sàmhchair à sàrachadh. 
                               
Cha bhi nuairsin ach mi fhèin ’s                 
a’ chreag 
fhuar, fhliuch aig bun mo chois.  
Creag a chaidh sgoltadh o chionn fhada,
fada mus deach neach a chruthachadh, 
fada mus deach sìol a thogail                 
is fhàgail
air muin smùirnein dhust.
 
Sèid thusa. Siuthad.
Thig flin nad chois le sgreuch is sgread na sgine,
feuchainn gach stiall a reubadh bhuam.
‘S ann nas teanna ghreimicheas mi.
Seasaidh mi, ge b’ oil leibh uile,
sgrath mo choim gun sgath, gun urram,
gach gath ‘gam sgrìobadh, a sgiùrs ‘gam lèireadh,
mo mheuran air an ragadh lom.                
 
Ach ‘s fheàrr, ‘s fhada ‘s fheàrr  na
na biastan faoin a’ raoiceadh seachad,            
an sùilean mar ghrèin no gealaich gun rian,            
gam dhalladh gach oidhch is latha,
mar a tha iad fhèin dall
eadar am beò is am bàs.                               
Am boladh loibht ‘s an cuid phuinnsein, 
am blas meatailt ‘gam thacadh,                 
sreath de smugaidean searbhachd
a’ fàgail rùsg ri seargadh.                
 
Cha toir iad aire.                    
Is ged a thoireadh,
cha thuigeadh iad mi.
Cha tuig mis iad.                         
Chan iad sileag an fhaothachadh.
Chan iad fàs o blàths na grèine,
no ‘s motha gaoth le fearg ath-bheothachail.            
 
Sèid thusa.  Siuthad.  

Blow 
 
You may blow,
you may shout and rail, roar from your scowl.
All evening and night you still cut rough,
nothing but bitter threatening, bellowing,        
battering with curses.                    
 
Cessation comes.
Quietude from exhaustion.
 
Then there will be but me 
and this rock,
cold, wet at my foot.
A rock which was cleft long ago,
before breath came to the first being,
before seed was lifted                        
and left
upon specks of dust.
 
Blow.  Go on.
Sleet will follow with the scream and screech of the knife,
keen to strip each cell from me.
The tighter I will grip.
I will stand despite you,
the bark of my being disrespected,
each dart scraping, its scourge tormenting,
my fingers benumbed, bare. 
 
Better that by far than 
the foolish beasts roaring past,
their eyes like demented suns, maddened moons                
blinding, as they themselves are blind
between breath and death.
Their stench, their poisons,
their metal taste choking,
their line of acid spit
leaving skin to wither.

They pay no heed.
If they did,
they would not understand,
any more than I understand them.
They are not the water of mitigation.
They are not the light of the growth-giving sun,
much less the vivifying rage of the wind.
 
Blow.  Go on.