Míorúiltí
Dhéanfása scéal mór as míorúiltí ab ea?
Óm thaobhsa de, ní heol dom faic ach míorúiltí.
Pé acu an ag siúl sráideanna Mhanattan atáim
nó sracfhéachaint agam á tabhairt trasna na ndíonta i dtreo na spéire
nó mé ag lapadaíl cosnochta ar an gcladach díreach
ar imeall an tsáile,
nó mé im sheasamh fé na crainn sna coillte
nó ag comhrá le cara dil i rith an lae, nó luí sa leaba
le cara dil istoíche.
nó suí chun boird ag dinnéar leis an gcuid eile,
nó ag breathnú ar stróinséirí os mo chomhair sa tram,
nó féachaint ar na beacha meala agus iad gnóthach timpeall na coirceoige
- athmhaidin samhraidh -
nó beithígh ag iníor sa ghort
nó éanlaith, nó iontas na bhfeithidí san aer
nó iontas luí na gréine, nó na réaltaí is iad ag lonrú
go séimh is go ciúin,
nó cuar caol tanaí gleoite fíneáilte na gealaí úire
san earrach . . .
tá gach aon orlach ciúbach den spás míorúilteach,
agus an rud céanna á leathadh ar fud gach slat chearnach
de dhromchla an domhain,
gach troigh den chroí tíre ag cur thar maoil mar an gcéanna.
Míorúilt leanúnach domsa is ea an mhuir
na héisc sa snámh - na carraigeacha - gluaiseacht na dtonn
- longa is na fearaibh iontu,
an bhfuil míorúiltí níos éachtaí ann ná iad?
Miracles
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge
of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in the bed
at night with anyone I love,
Or sit at the table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honeybees busy around the hive
of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining
so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon
in spring . . .
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread
with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim-the rocks-the motion of the waves
-the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
~ Walt Whitman ~
(Leaves of Grass)
