cha b'e murt a bh'air d'aire,
cha b'e muchadh,
cha b'impireachd,
nuair a ghabh thu greim teann
ait taigh, air drochaid,
creag no craobh,
ach d'fheum airson na h-aile
ruigheachd, anail gorm
na greine, 's do dhuileach
mar shaighdean beo
is deonach airson leigheas
do gach galair seice's
mionach, 's na do raithe
fleadh do bheach is speach
a' sugh do bhlathan,
is meas do lionad na
chuirm do ghobhlan-gaoithe 's
smeorach, chan fhaicear
dreathen na do chuiltean,
righ beag brodachail nan ian
ach cleoc thu, do gach deargan
's dion 'n a luchairt, do
gach righ |
murder was not your intention
nor asphyxiation,
it was no imperialism
when you wrapped a tight grip
around house, bridge,
rock or tree,
but your need to reach
the air, the sun's green
breath, your leaves like
living arrowheads
eager to be healing
every malady of skin
and gut, and in your season
wasp and bee feast on
your blossom's nectar,
while your berries' fullness makes
banquet for thrush and
swallow, nor can the wren be
spotted in your shadows,
haughty little king of birds
but you're a cloak, to every flea
and in his secure palace, to
every king |