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Silhouette

Written by Marcas Mac an Tuairneir

Produced by Adam Holmes

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Silhouette

’S aithne dhomh do chruth,

tha an silhouette air leth,

air a’ bhalla tha do sgàil,

chì mi sin is thu gu lèir,

agus ’s mi a nochd do chliù,

thusa coma co-dhiù,

ged nach d’ fhuair thu ’n rud a thuar thu,

’s ann orm-sa tha a bhuil.

 

Mi – enfant terrible a thog a cheann.

Thu – gille mìlse leis an t-sannt.

An ruith a th' agad air an airgead –

fhios gu bheil do chogais gann.

 

Dubh, dubh, dubh, sa gheal.

Geal, geal, geal san dubh.

 

’S aithne dhomh do dhuan,

cha phaisg thu fhèin do phìob,

mi air cluinntinn mìle uair,

agus ’s tu fhuair cuidhteas dhìom,
dhiùlt thu dànachd 's siansadh nuadh,

gus òrain aosta chur ron t-sluagh,

is thug thu biadh far mo bhòrd

nuair a bha mo bhith-beò bochd.

 

I – dualan bàna, urram cam.

Thu – sùilean dubha, mionn lom,

gur sparradh ron a’ chamara –

gàire drilseach ach modh crom.

 

Ciamar thàr thu às le mo bheachdan,

fhad 's a mhùch thu mi ’s mo ghuth?

’S ann ann am foillseachadh nam faclan,

bheir sinn fìrinn ron an t-sluagh.

Tha am faileas fuar is fuadain,

sìorraidh faoin, gun bhrìgh, gun diù.

 

Dubh, dubh, dubh, sa gheal.

Geal, geal, geal san dubh.

I know your form,
the silhouette is unique,
your shadow across the wall,
I see it and you clearly,
and I showed you for what you are,

though you couldn't care less,

while you didn't get what you deserve,
I got the full force of it.

 

Me – the enfant terrible who stood his ground.
You – the sycophant with the greed.
The way you made off with the pay-out –

shows you lack a conscience.

 

Black, black, black and white.
White, white, white and black.

 

I know your tune,
you never seem to pipe down,
I've heard it a thousand times,

and it's you that got rid of me,
you turned down brave new music,
to give the crowd an old song,
and you took food from my table
when I was in poverty.

She – golden ringlets, warped honour.
You – black eyes, broken promises,
pushing yourself before the camaras –

a shimmering smile full of deceit.

How could you make off with my ideas,
whilst your choked off my voice?

It's in publishing the words,
that we bring truth before the world.
The reflection is cold and fake,
eternally inane, meaningless and without worth.

Black, black, black and white.
White, white, white and black.