Aonghas MacNeacail
englisch
smuainteag bheag dhan duine mór
mar chuimhneachan air somhairle mac ill eain
an latha ghabh thu an drochaid déile, eadar
a bheatha iomlaideach is cuimhne, bha deòir
air bràighean bàn nan aodann, mar chuachan
sàil, mar sgàthain tromh faicear na briathran
leugach beò, a chuir thu ann an eanchainn
do mhuinntir, mar shìl a tha, ann an dubhair
biadhchar na cuimhne, a dùsgadh fhriamhan,
a togail ghasan, gus am brùchdar amach a
choille thoirmreach beithe, tromh’n cluinnear
gach slat, gach duilleag, ag aithris do dhàin
a small thought for a big man
in memoriam sorley maclean
the day you crossed the deal bridge, between
unpredictable life and memory, there were tears
on the pale slopes of our faces, like quaichs of
brine, like mirrors through which could be seen
the living jewel words you placed in the minds
of your people, like seeds that, in the fertile
darknesses of memory, awaken roots, raise
shoots, until it bursts out, in uproar of motion,
that same birch wood, in which can be heard
every twig and leaf, declaiming your poems