Beneath the Arms of Rutherglen
a stirring has been heard
The rising of the “Other Men”
The bearers of the Word
The Word that may enlighten
with no promise, with no threat.
With no intent to frighten
nor repay the pauper’s debt.
The Word then of the “Other Men”
Is brewing in their lungs
The message born in Rutherglen
delivered by their tongues.
A gaelic word that’s ne’er been said
nor written on a page.
Like Latin, from a language dead,
hewn from some other age
The ears are pricked in patient hope
The “Other Men” draw nigh
Cuchullain’s feat with wheel and rope
Gae Bulga lofted high
The Word is destined to emerge
No longer trapped inside
The “Other Men” begin the surge
This time they will not be denied.
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Comments about this poem (Chleenchama Rackhathu. by Dan Reynolds )
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