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Macanta

Written by Marcas Mac an Tuairneir and Nick Turner

Produced by Nick Turner

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Macanta

Tha mi leam fhìn,

ann am baile far nach aithne dhomh an t-slighe.

Chan eil e ciùin.

Chan eil càraid ceanalt’ còmhla rium.

 

Cha chluinn mi fuaim

ach crònan na cuibhle,

cabhag mac an duine,

chan eil mo chasan cleachdte ris an t-sràid.

 

’S i an fhuaim as binne;

an tuil taobh a-staigh mo chinn.

Seo facal na fìrinn,

ann an sruth eadar pàipear is pinn.

 

Fàg mi lem chuimhne.

Cho fad ’s a tha mi beò anns a’ bhaile,

an àite clambraid na trafaig,

b’ fheàrr leam mànran macanta na mara.

 

Tha mi fuar.

Cha mhise urradh an taighe agam fhìn.

Tha mi faoin;

ag èisteachd ri guthan na mo chuimhn’.

 

Chan fhaigh mi sìth,

ach dorchadas an t-seòmair,

nam shuidhe air an t-sòfa.

Chan eil mo shùilean cleachdte ris an t-sil.

 

’S i an fhuaim as binne;

an tuil taobh a-staigh mo chinn.

Seo facal na fìrinn,

ann an sruth eadar pàipear is pinn.

 

Fàg mi lem chuimhne.

Cho fad ’s a tha mi beò anns a’ bhaile,

an àite clambraid na trafaig,

b’ fheàrr leam mànran macanta na mara.

I am alone
in a city where the streets are unknown.
There is no peace.
With me, there is no familiar face.


I hear no sound,
but the drone of the wheel
and the bustle of the people.
My feet aren’t accustomed to the street.

 

It’s the sweetest sound
the flood inside my mind
this is the word of truth
in the flow between paper and pen.

 

Leave me to my memory.
As long as I’m alive in the city,
instead of racket and the traffic,
give me the gentle humming of the sea.

 

I am cold.
I am not the owner of my own home.
I am weak;
listening to the voices in my memory.

 

I find no peace,
but the darkness of the room.
Sitting on the sofa,
my eyes won’t accustom to the tears.


It’s the sweetest sound
the flood inside my mind
this is the word of truth
in the flow between paper and pen.

Leave me to my memory.

As long as I’m alive in the city,

instead of racket and the traffic,

give me the gentle humming of the sea.