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Calman
Written by Marcas Mac an Tuairneir
Produced by Gary Keane
Buy Now on Bandcamp
Calman
Cha tu leithid calmain
a ghèilleadh fhèin do chèidse iarainn.
Gun ghluasad air na gàdaichean,
gheibh thu fuasgladh dorais-bhùird
is mas teàrnadh bheir tìm air do shlighe,
’s e do char an nì thu iomlan
is tu sgiathach a-nìos, an aircis nan àrd.
Cumaidh tu an uachdar sinn led bhrìgh,
nan robh sinn riamh dall,
’s ann tron fhonn ’s tu fhèin a chruthaich
a thuigeas sinn do chiall.
’S ann le sgaoileadh do sgèith, a nì thu sin:
’S fhiach feuchainn, ’s fhiach tuigsinn,
cluinnidh mi do ghliocas nad fhìrinn mhìn
agus mi a bh’ ann an èiginn, iomadh uair.
Nuair a sheinneas, bidh mi ’g èisteachd riut:
a chalmain, rinn teicheadh na cèidse.
Cha thu leithid calmain,
a ghèilleadh rèist do choileach goirsinn.
Ged a dhèanadh esan fioram faram,
’s ann leats’ a tha reusan binn
is mas teàrnadh bheir e air a shlighe,
’s e a char a nì thu iomlan
is a stiùireadh gu buannachd na doimhn’.
Cumaidh tu an uachdar e led bhrìgh,
nan robh a chluasan balbh,
’s ann tron fhonn ’s tu fhèin a chruthaich
a thuigeas e a chiall.
Bheir thu ’n t-oideas as ciataich’ bh’ aige riamh:
’S fhiach feuchainn, ’s fhiach tuigsinn,
cluinnidh mi do ghliocas nad fhìrinn mhìn,
agus mi a bh’ ann an èiginn, iomadh uair,
Nuair a sheinneas, bidh mi ’g èisteachd riut:
a chalmain, rinn saidh tàirsinn air fàire
agus chruinnich thu do threud –
èirigh sinn uile air ite, càch a chèil’.
You aren’t the sort of dove
who’d herself surrender to an iron cage.
Motionless against the bars,
you find freedom in a trapdoor
and if the times force your flight into descent,
you perform a perfect inversion
and up you soar, towards the heights.
It’s you that upholds us with your spirit,
and if we were ignorant before,
it’s through the melody you’ve created
we get the gist,
It’s in the spreading of your wing, you do this:
It’s worth trying, understanding,
I hear wisdom in these fine-tuned truths
and, I, who often am in danger,
when you sing, I listen to you:
the dove that escaped the cage.
You aren’t the sort of dove,
to make concessions to a cockerel’s crowing.
Despite the stamping of his feet,
you have harmony and reason,
and if he sends himself into descent,
you’ll completely invert him,
steer him into being an asset to the world.
It’s you that upholds him with your spirit,
if his ears were ever deaf,
it’s through the melody you created,
he’ll get the gist.
You bestow the handsomest instruction he ever had:
It’s worth trying, understanding,
I hear wisdom in these fine-tuned truths
and, I, who often am in danger,
when you sing, I listen to you:
the dove that mde chevron flight on the horizon,
and you have gathered your flock
all a-wing, we together, in the firmament.