Aistear
le Nuala N� Dhomhnaill
D�n do L� le P�draig, 1997
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A Ph�draig, �s fada an aistear againn � � Cho�ll Fhochlaid at� in aice na farraige thiar. Bh� linn ar dt�is ach ansan do chuaigh an saol is an aims�r go m�r in�r gcoinnibh. Chaitheamair gabh�ilt de dhair le doirnibh, gad a chur um ghaineainh, is �r bu� a shn�omh i dtuirn� briste as tu� na ngarraithe, pl�r na mban is na bhfear � seoladh thar lear orainn is sinn f�gtha go hatuirseach br� mhuilinn � iomp� le gach deoir againn. B'ionann is gabh�ilt tr�d an Mhuir Rua costhir�m is nochta�the �r dteacht i dt�r �n aon chor. Deir s�ad go bhfuil fuar againn; gur turas in aistear � �r dturas go dt� seo; ag sn�mh de sh�or i gcoinne an easa choitianta at� ag g�imneach go hard in�r gcluasa. Deir siad go sn�omhann gach sruth le f�naidh is sa deireadh go gcaithim�d tabha�rt isteach is g�illeadh do r�achtanais� an tsaoil r�adaigh. Ach t� dearmhad orthu. Chona�cis-se le�s na ruda� a tharla i gcoinne an oird n�d�rtha; an cail�n ag treasn� abhainn an tSuca gan a br�ga a fhliuchadh: tusa ag �sli� dream an d�omais is na draoithe d�ra gan aon mhaith: Is i ndeargainneo�n R� Teamhrach do lasais an tine Ch�sca ar Chnoc na Sl�ine n�r m�chadh riamh � shin a toit n� a bladhmann. Nuala N� Dhomhnaill |
Patrick, we have journeyed far from the wood of fochluth by the western sea. We started well but life and times turned on us. We had to fell the oaks with our fists, moor to a shifting sand, weave threads of gold from common straw with a spun wheel, the best of our men and women were banished to foreign lands and we were left drained each tear a millstone round our neck. But we made it a miracle naked and dryfooted through the Red Sea parting. They say we've blown it; our journey vain so far; buffeting the common current and its craven caterwauling. They say a brook beguiles and we two will go with the flow captivated by the real world's call. But they are wrong. You have seen nature's orders countermanded; a girl crossing rhe River Suck and her shoes bone dry: the proud that you struck down, along with useless desiccated druids: You death-defied the King of Tara and on Slane's hill you lit the Easter flame whose spark and smoke still nurture us. translation: P�l � Duibhir |