by Louis Aragon, freely reset in Scots.
Fur Rene Magritte.

Ye fan me, like a stane scrauned frae the shore,
Like a tint, fremmit ferlie, o unkent design,
Like dulse on a sextent, scaled frae the tide,
Like the haar at the windae; sikkin inbye
A day efter the circus, 'mang the filed soss o the fete,
A gangrel, wi nae ticket, on the railroad,
A burn on the grun, ootlinned b' aa,
A widlan craitur, catched in the car's heidlichts,
Like a nicht watchie, traivellin hame in a blae foreneen,
Like a dwaum in the derk jyle-gloam,
Like a fleggit birdie, snibbit in a hoose,
Like the reid mark o a ring, on the finger o an affcast lover,
A connached car, in the mids o naewye.
Like a letter, chittered, an coost tae the cassie's win's,
Like gear, doonpitten in transit, on a station,
Like a door in the hairt, like a tree whaur the lichtenin's fa'n,
A stane in a ditch, markin a thing lang-gaen,
Like the eeseless toot o a boatie, hyne oot at sea,
Like the scrat o a knife, lang efter, in the flesh,
Like a shelt, tint, suppin watter frae an orra puil,
Like a bowster, kerfuffled wi a nichtmare dwaum,
Like a back-spik tae the sun, wi the stew in yer een,
Like risin birsse, ay kennin that naething cheenges aneth the lift,
Ye fan me in the nicht, like a tint wird,
Like a tink wha's cooried doon in an oot-hoose,
Like a tyke weirin a collar wi anither's name on't,
A chiel o yesterday fu' o soun an spit.