Latha Foghair
’S mi air an t-slios ud
latha foghair,
na sligean a’ sianail mum chluasan
agus sianar marbh ri mo ghualainn,
rag-mharbh – is reòthta mur b’ e ’n teas –
mar gum b’ ann a’ fuireach ri fios.
Nuair thàinig an sgriach
a-mach às a’ ghrèin,
à buille ’s bualadh do-fhaicsinn,
leum an lasair agus streap an ceathach
agus bhàrc e gacha rathad:
dalladh nan sùl, sgoltadh claistinn.
’S ’na dhèidh, an sianar marbh,
fad an latha;
am measg nan sligean san t-srannraich
anns a’ mhadainn,
agus a-rithist aig meadhan-latha
agus san fheasgar.
Ris a’ ghrèin ’s i cho coma,
cho geal cràiteach;
air a’ ghainmhich ’s i cho tìorail
socair bàidheil;
agus fo reultan Afraga,
’s iad leugach àlainn.
Ghabh aon Taghadh iadsan
’s cha d’ ghabh e mise,
gun fhaighneachd dhinn
cò b’ fheàrr no bu mhiosa:
ar leam, cho diabhlaidh coma
ris na sligean.
Sianar marbh rim o ghualainn
latha foghair.
Translations of this Poem
An Autumn Day
Translator: Sorley MacLean
On that slope
on an autumn day,
the shells soughing about my ears
and six dead men at my shoulder,
dead and stiff – and frozen were it not for the heat –
as if they were waiting for a message.
When the screech came
out of the sun,
out of an invisible throbbing,
the flame leaped and the smoke climbed
and surged every way:
blinding of eyes, splitting of hearing.
And after it, the six men dead
the whole day;
among the shells snoring
in the morning,
and again at midday
and in the evening.
In the sun, which was so indifferent,
so white and painful;
on the sand which was so comfortable,
easy and kindly;
and under the stars of Africa,
jewelled and beautiful.
One Election took them
and did not take me,
without asking us
which was better or worse:
it seemed as devilishly indifferent
as the shells.
Six men dead at my shoulder
on an Autumn Day.
