Speactram

Speactram

Cùm do bhrataichean fuadain

air falbh bhuam a-nochd.

Chan fhaic mi dathan an speactraim sin,

ach fuil an ùrlair-dhannsa.

Craiceann ga liathadh le làmh a’ bhàis,

na bilean binn a’ briosgadh,
a’ sireadh na pòige mu dheireadh;

rud a spreag murt na splaoid.

Aodann sgàinte aig ana-chreideas,

dubhan nan sùilean leudaichte

san dorchadas a lìonas an seòmar sin

is ga sgaoileadh tro sgar san t-saoghal.

Solas ga sgaradh thar bàrr bàil-lainnir,

deàrrs na boillsg’ a’ teàrnadh

son na h-uarach mu dheireadh –

a’ tùirling air clisgeadh chuirp.

Na inns dhomh mu na gorm is uaine,

orains, pinc no purpaidh,

ach mun bhuidhe bh’ air an oidhche ud,

dithis an achlais a chèile.

Can gun sgiath dathan an anman,

a dh’fhasgadh a tha na fhìor-thèarmann,

gar fàgail seo, am measg an eòrnaich,

gus ar tuigse spìonta ath-fhighe.

Keep from me tonight
your fleeting flags.
I see no colour in that spectrum,
but blood on a dance-floor.

Skin drained of palour by death’s hand,
the sweet lips strain to smack
the final kiss;
this killing-spree’s inspiration.

Their faces cleaved by incredulity,
pupils dilated together
in the darkness that fills that one room
and spreads throughout our ruptured world.

Light split across a disco ball,
the shimmer descends
one last time;
settles on quivering limbs.

​

Talk not to me of blue or green,
orange, pink or purple,
but of the yellow lightness of that night,
a couple locked in an embrace.

Say those shades will spread their wings,
those souls find true sanctuary
and leave us here, amid the debris,
to re-weave our shattered understanding.