The Autumn Wind, Breathed by the Crone
Tha mi a’ mothachadh nan corragan na gaoith’,I am feeling the fingers of the wind,
‘Ruith tron ghruag, na duilleagan seo marbh’, gan cuidhleadh,Running through the hair, these dead leaves, whirling them,
Brisg ‘san fhuigheall dhonn an t-Samhraidh ‘tha ‘nis ‘crìonadh;Brittle in the brown remnants of the Summer that is waning;
A’ Chailleach gun tig ‘n dèidh a’ chinntinn, ‘nis ‘s a-chaoidh…The Crone that shall come after the growth, now and for always…
Dith’s seanmhairean, dith’s seanairean a-chean’ air shiubhal,Two grandmothers, two grandfathers already passed,
Triùir am peathraichean is dith’s am bràithrean cuideachdThree of my great-aunts and two of my great-uncles also
Leoth’ air shiubhal, ‘s am bràthair deireannach na màtharPassed with them, and the last brother of my mother’s
Mo mhàthar ‘cheana &
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