Gan rogha
Bualadh chun bóthair, sin é an cleas
a deirteá is tú ag cuimhneamh
ar chonairí rúnda do dhúchais,
ar an bhfásach thiar nach bhfaca tú riamh;
anseo bhí na páistí ag súgradh
ar shráidíní crochta faoi dhealbha mire,
an gheargáil ag brúchtadh smúite:
ach níl sé i ndán duit dúiseacht
as an taibhreamh seo,
níl sé i ndán duit taibhreamh eile
a roghnú.
Set forth, that’s the thing to do, you used to say, remembering the secret paths of your kind and the desert back there which you’d never seen. Here the children were playing on steep streets under mad statues, with the gargoyle belching darkness. But you aren’t fated to awaken from this dream, nor to choose another.
Thart
Bhí an cogadh thart
is na fothracha múchta
ag maisiú an earraigh:
na lusanna cumhra
bog faoinár gcosa
is dearmad déanta ag na héin
ar challán na staire:
bhreathnaíomar suas
ar chaisleáin gheala na spéire
is bhreathnaigh cloigeann linbh
orainn le súile folmha
The war had finished, the ruins smothered with the garnish of Spring: sweet herbs underfoot, the birds forgetting the uproar of history. We looked up at the bright castles of the sky, and a child’s skull looked at us with empty eyes.
Colin is a regular contributor to Tinteán and issues his own Irish language online newsletter An Lúibín. Mura mian leat An Lúibín a fháil, cuir teachtaireacht dá réir chun rianach@optusnet.com.au
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