Teine

by Ceitidh Chaimbeul

Bha brathadair nach do thuig mi nam òige.
Chuireadh tu fadadh air seann èibhleagan,
bhirtich thu iad gus an robh iad air losgadh.
Ge b’ e an raith, bhiodh thu ga theallachadh sa mhadainn
mar theine leathann no las gun bhàs.
Bhiodh do ghealbhan air chleachdadh gu bràth.

Ach ann teas tràth mo deugaireachd,
cha do mhothaich mi gainne dhrillseanan nad eanchainn.

Bu shlaodach a mhùchadh do ghalladh teine.
Chaidh a’ chràmhainn na smùdan
is beag air bheag thàinig am fuachd ort.
D’ àite-teine furanach ga lughdachadh,
a’ caochladh na fhaileas dubh
le cumhachd na bu làidire na tùrlach Dhante.

Fire

There was a blaze I didn’t understand in my youth.
Kindling the spent embers,
you provoked them into burning.
No matter the season, stoking in the morning,
your signal fire, or eternal flame.
Your hearth, always in use.

But in the warmth of my teenage years
I didn’t notice the sparks lacking in your mind.

Your bright core slowly extinguished.
Turning the fire to ash,
little by little the cold engulfed you.
Your welcoming fireplace reduced,
transformed into a dark shadow
by a power stronger than Dante’s inferno.