Romansachd
Nar seasamh aig cab Coire nan Clach: coire nan ceud mìle clach garbha, geala, briste, cruinn. Ceud mìle clach sgapte, nan cathadh sneachda. Fo ar casan sgìth, tha cearcall chlachan ghainmhich, balla briste, no àirigh thrèigte, no àite-falachaidh, dh’ fhaodte? Freumhan chraobhan nochdte eadar sgàinidhean, ag èirigh à plaide shracte mòine, às dèidh mìle bliadhna. An t-allt a’ sruthadh fhathast, a’ bleith is a’ briseadh chreagan gun abhsadh a’ lìonadh linneachan dorch, bagarach. Am mullach mòr os ar cionn, a’ cumail faire, air coire nan ceud mìle bliadhna. Gun fhios dhuinn dè an sgeulachd a dhrùidheas oirnn, àilleachd is eireachdas, no sgrios is seargadh? Cò, is cuin, is ciamar? Blas is faireachdainn is cuimhne, caillte ann an còdan na h-eachdraidh.
Translations of this Poem
Romance
Standing at the mouth of
The Rocky Corrie:
the corrie of the million stones,
rough, rugged, round, pale.
One hundred thousand stones spread,
like drifting snow.
Under our tired feet,
there is a sandstone circle,
a broken wall, or forgotten sheiling, or
a hiding place, perhaps?
Tree roots revealed
between ruptures,
rising out of a torn peat blanket,
after a thousand years hidden.
The burn flows on,
eroding and splitting stone
relentlessly
filling black, menacing pools.
The great peak above us,
keeping vigil,
over the corrie of the hundred thousand years.
And us not knowing which version of the story
will possess us,
beauty and majesty, or rack and ruin?
Who, and when, and why?
Senses and perception and memory,
adrift in the
codes of history.
Source: Author
