The Gaelic Poetry Nook will present poetry both in English and Gaelic.

An T-Oigear A' Bruidhinn O'n Uir	The Young Man Speaking From The Grave
Seall, a chinne-dhaonna, dlùth air, Is gu'n toir an t-sùil do'n chuimhne rabhadh. Seall am form a dh' òl ar lotan air a threabhadh leis a' chanan. Seall na h-achaidhean a shluig sinn a' sgeith an duslaich anns an adhar. Ruidhle aig na cuilbh dhubh' orr' ri drumaireachd nan gunn' a' tabhann. Air an uisgeachadh le feòlachd, le fuil òigear oidhch' is latha. Air an ruamhar, air an riastradh, air an cliathadh leis a' chasgairt. Seall na bothain is na bailtean Inan cruachan clachaireachd gun anam. Seall smùr nam baile pronn san Eadailt, Is nan clachan leagte thall san Aifric. Duslach min nan taighean marbha, stùr armailtean air uaigh nan dachaidh. Bu chòir gu'n cruinnicheadh gaoth mhòr e air feadh na h-Eòrpa fad' is farsuing, As an Eòrpa is à Breatainn, 'ga sguabadh leatha 'na neul gathach. gu'n sèideadh i sna siùlean cruaidhe leis nach truagh ar lotan sracte, leis nach truagh ar buain Earraich, Is ar n-uaighean feachda air ar n-aineol, 'gan lionadh le sleaghan duslaich, 'gan cur a shruthadh is 'gan dalladh; ceart mar a thachd an duslach ciar sinn 's a mhùch e grian òg ar latba.	Look closely on it, mankind, and let the eye bid the memory take heed. See the land that has drunk our wounds, ploughed by the cannon. See the fields that swallowed us spewing their dust in the air. As the black pillars dance a reel on them to the drumming of the barking guns. Watered they are with butchery, with the blood of young men night and day. They have been dug, they have been torn, they have been harrowed by the slaughter. See the cottages and towns, heaps of masonry that give no shelter. See the dust of the crushed towns in Italy, and of the villages overthrown in Africa. The fine dust of the dead houses, the stour of armies on the graves of homes. A great wind should gather it through Europe far and wide, from Europe and from Britain, sweeping it along in a stabbing cloud. To blow in the hard eyes that do not grieve for our torn wounds; that do not grieve for us, mown in the Springtime, or for our campaign graves in a strange land, to fill them with spears of dust, to set them streaming and to blind them; even as the dark dust cloud choked us, and quenched the young sun of our day.
Deorsa Mac Iain Deorsa	George Campbell Hay

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