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

Part One can be found here.

Atman	Atman
Rinn thu goid 'nad éiginn, dh'fheuch thu breug gu faotainn as; dhit iad, chàin is chuip iad thu, is chuir iad thu fo ghlais. Bha 'm beul onoracha dhit thu pladach, bideach 'sa ghnùis ghlais; bha Ceartas sreamshùileach o sgrùdadh a leabhar cunntais 's iad sìor phailt. Ach am beul a dhearbhadh breugach, bha e modhail, éibhinn, binn; fhuair mi eirmseachd is sgeòil uaith 's gun e ro eòlach air trith bidh. Thogte do shùil o'n obair i cruth an t-saoghail a dheoghal tlachd; mhol thu Debel Iussuf dhomh, a cumadh is a dath. Is aithne dhomh thu, Atmain, bean do thaighe 's do chòignear òg, do bhaidnein ghobhar is t'asail, do ghoirtein seagail is do bhó. Is aithne dhomh thu, Atmain: is fear thu 's tha thu beò, dà ni nach eil am breitheamh, 's a chaill e 'chothrom gu bhith fòs. Chan ainmig t' fhallus 'na do shùilean; is eòl duit sùgradh agus fearg; bhlais is bhlais thu 'n difir eadar milis agus searbh. Dh'fheuch thu grain is bròn is gàire; dh'fheuch thu inradh agus grian; dh'fhairich thu a' bheatha is cha do mheath thu roimpe riamh. Na'n robh thu beairteach, is do chaolan garbh le caoile t' airein sgith, cha bhiodh tu 'chuideachd air na mìolan an dubh phrìosan Mhondovi. Nuair gheibh breitheamh còir na cùirte làn a shùla de mo dhruim, thig mi a thaobh gu d'fhàilteachadh trasd an t-sràid ma chi mi thu. Sidna Aissa, chaidh a cheusadh mar ri mèirlich air bàrr sléibh, is b'e 'n toibheum, Atmain, àicheadh gur bràthair dhomh thu fhéin.	You thieved in your need, and you tried a lie to get off; they condemned you, reviled you and whipped you, and they put you under lock and key. The honourable mouth that condemned you was blubberish and tiny in the grey face; and Justice was blear-eyed from scrutinising its account-books, that ever showed abundance. But the mouth which was found lying was mannerly, cheerful and melodious; I got sharp repartee and tales from it, though it was not too well acquainted with a meal. Your eye would be raised from your work to draw pleasure from the shape of the world; you praised Jebel Yussuf to me, its form and its colour. I know you, Atman, the woman of your house and your five youngsters, your little clump of goats and your ass, your plot of rye and your cow. I know you, Atman: you are a man, and you are alive; two things the judge is not, and that he has lost his chance of being ever. Your sweat is not seldom in your eyes; you know what sporting and anger are; you have tasted and tasted the difference between sweet and bitter. You have tried hatred and grief and laughter; you have tried tempest and sun; you have experienced life and never shrunk before it. Had you been wealthy, and your gut thick with the leanness of your tired ploughmen, you would not be keeping company with the lice in the black prison of Mondovi. When the decent judge of the court gets the fill of his eye of my back, I will come aside to welcome you across the street if I see you. Our Lord Jesus was crucified along with thieves on the top of a hill, and it would be blasphemy, Atman, to deny that you are a brother of mine.
Deòrsa Mac Iain Deòrsa	George Campbell Hay

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