An robh thu feitheamh rium ag bonn na sràide?
Nan robh, thàinig thu gun fhiosta dhomh,
no dùil gum faighinn thu an lùib ceò
tombaca, glòr na trafaige, sgàilean
an stèisein agus nan toglaichean àrda.
Cha robh for againn gu robh sinn òg.
Choisich sinn fo na lanntairean òr’,
is stad sinn, a’ roinn phògan agus bàrdachd.
A-nis, gach seachdain, bidh sinne coiseachd
air Sràid an Dòchais, a’ dìreadh bho oisean
gu oisean, greim caileig’ air ar làmhan
is nì sinn sreap, suas gu bàrr a cnuic-se;
suas, suas, gun sùil air ais gu ruige
’m mullach, far a bheil an saoghal air fàire.
*
Were you waiting for me down there
at the bottom of the street? If so, I didn’t know,
never thought I’d find you amid that fog
of tobacco smoke and the loud din of the traffic,
the shadows of the station and the buildings
rising high overhead. We had no idea how young
we were! Under golden lanterns we walked,
stopping for a kiss, poetry spilling from our lips.
And now, every week we walk again
along Hope Street, climbing from corner
to corner, our daughter by the hand
as we climb to the top of that hill, up, up,
never looking back until we reach the summit
where the world stretches wide before us.
Translated by Deborah Moffatt