cha b’e nàire
gun do dhiùlt thu
ùmhlachd do dhia,
’s gun d’rinn thu
crann dha bhàs,
ach, mar a chithear
na do dhuilleach
miaran pìobaire,
siùbhlachd d’iarrtais
air dannsa |
it’s not your shame
that you wouldn’t
bow to a god,
or made the
cross he died on,
but the motion
of your leaves
like piper’s fingers,
an urgency
for dancing |