a-rithist

Hallo a chairdean, nach eil e iomchaidh, smaoint a ghabhail airson nam fogarrach bochd a tha a' tighinn dhan duthaich seo airson cobhair agus an aite sin 's e na h-uile a tha iad a 'faighinn, bochdainn agus grain-cinnidh. Chan eil e ceadaichte dhaibh obrachadh, agus ma tha iad a' call an tagraidh aca, tha iad a' call an dachaigh, agus feumaidh iad fuireach air na sraidean, gun taic no cuideachadh oifigeil sam bith. Tha e follaiseach gu bheil seo a' tighinn tro ghrain-cinnidh ar riaghaltas fhein a tha gan sparradh air ais gu duthchannan far am faigh iad bas, neo dochann, neo eigneachadh, neo a h-uile rud eile a fhuair ar ceannardan ann an oideachadh bho na Naisich anns a' Ghearmailt.

Ach, a bharrachd air gearan, seo mo bhardachd;

All born losers Bolsheviks
With no heaven in their hearts
They tease, they hurt, they execute
And then they tear our souls apart
For what is there apart from love
That they should hold above us all
I can't forsee the end of their
Crusade to have us whipped, I stall
In wonder and in disbelief
At the hatred held for fellow man
There's no longing left for peace
Or gentility beyond the plan
It's begone to wisdom, farewell to just
We're more than that, we need, we burst
The pain of governments and states
We're alone at last, beyond their fate

Cha toil leam Commanaich a bharrachd air calpachasaich, nach mi tha neo-eisimileach

Brain pickles, the sharpest sweet
My mind will follow its shell
I lived and died while on my feet
And slept and dreamed as well
So now I'm a collision course
The crash-test dummy of love
I'll meet the derision of lust
In equanimity, as above
I've watched myself dodge all the given
And live on a wing and a prayer
I'll find my own watchword in heaven
Dustbuggery or something will ensnare
For nonsense is only the passing
The truth of all that escapes
The bondage to land and rehearsing
The just in all of her drapes
My mind's never seemed like a pickle
But now I suck it to see
Which end is rather more fickle
My hope or depression in scree
Which slides and distorts all the future
Until I despair when I speak
The words are leaving the adventure
Of life in the concrete that's bleak
But cages are built and remain
And murders are done inside prison
The world should be sunk on the main
To remind us we never did listen

Agus am fear mu dheireadh an diugh

My heart belongs to a youthful
Corpse that lies in the past
When I lived with almighty hope
And dreamed of trust and betrayal
And not as now I grope
That nightmares come to flail
Over the place where my life was buried
So many years before its time
The clock turns its hands to worried
I'm like a dog digging in the grime
For a bone, or an eyeball translucent
That tells me which one is true
I'm not meant to live with this scent
That sticks to my hands like glue
From the hair of the girl that I murdered
By refusing to open my mouth
And now my mind's all buggered
I might as well tell the truth
I have no heart left
I've been pickled by neuroleptics
My hope is passed with her brain
And so I answer the sceptics
Anarcho-Communism or Death

'S e sin dan airson Sarah bochd, a chaidh a mharbhadh le pillichean inntinn ann an Ospadal Leverndale ann an da mhile sa h-aon, neo dha, chan eil mi cinnteach. Ach bhasaich i co-dhiu, agus chan ann tric a chithear caileag cho snog neo alainn rithe nar laithean-ne, leis na trioblaidean a bh'aice na h-inntinn fhein.

Trugarez deoc'h
Daibhidh