cha b’e truimead do dhiamhaireachd
ach do bhiathadh,
mise nam rìgh, nam dhèirceach,
a’ gabhail bhuat, na do ràithe,
a' chagnaidh bheairtich
nan smuaintean neartmhor
agus air chùl nan smuain,
ann an abachd na beatha,
bradan a’ leum,
bradan geal a’ leum,
uchd làn de
shìol beò na h-innleachd |
it wasn’t the weight of your mystery
but your nourishment,
i as king, as beggar,
accepting from you, in your season,
the rich crunch of kernel,
the vigour of thought
and behind such thought
in the ripeness of life,
a salmon leaps,
a white salmon leaps,
its belly fat with
the living seed of invention |