Feall is creach is reic déanta ar an uile ní,
scríobann eite mhór dhubh an Bháis an t-aer,
an ainnise dulta go smior ionainn.
Conas nach bhfuil éadóchas orainn?
Ó na coillte máguaird, isló,
séideann na silíní an samhradh isteach fán mbaile;
lonraíonn na spéartha doimhne gléineacha istoíche
le réaltbhuíonta nua.
Agus druideann an ní míorúilteach an-ghar
do na bathlaigh shalacha –
rud éigin nach eol d’aon neach beo
ach atá fiáin istigh san ucht againn leis na cianta.
Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death's great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses --
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.
~ Anna Akhmatova ~
(Poems of Akhmatova, edited and translated by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward)
