O Jean, in whom my spirit sees,
Clearer than through whisky or disease,
Its dernin’ nature, wad the searchin’ licht
Oor union raises poor’d owre me the nicht.

I’m faced wi’ aspects o’ mysel’
At last wha’s portent nocht can tell,
Save that sheer licht o’ life that when we’re joint
Loups through me like a fire a’ else t’ aroint.

Clear my lourd flesh, and let me move
In the peculiar licht o’ love,
As aiblins in Eternity men may
When their swack souls nae mair are clogged wi’ clay.

Be thou the licht in which I stand
Entire, in thistle-shape, as planned,
And no’ hauf-hidden and hauf-seen as here
In munelicht, whisky, and in fleshly fear,

In fear to look owre closely at
The grisly form in which I’m caught,
In sic a reelin’ and imperfect licht
Sprung frae incongruous elements the nicht!

But wer’t by thou they were shone on,
Then wad I ha’e nae dreid to con
The ugsome problems shapin’ in my soul,
Or gin I hed—certes, nae fear you’d thole!

Be in this fibre like an eye,
And ilka turn and twist descry,
Hoo here a leaf, a spine, a rose—or as
The purpose o’ the poo’er that brings ’t to pass.

Syne liberate me frae this tree,
As wha had there imprisoned me,
The end achieved—or show me at the least
Mair meanin’ in’t, and hope o’ bein’ released.

 

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle