Dhá dhán le Cathal Ó Searcaigh (English versions Gabriel Rosenstock)

BENFEITA, AN PHORTAINGÉIL

Anseo tá mé faoi gheasa ag an tsolas ghlé
a thig chugainn ó ardaibh gorma na spéire
chomh grástúil, dea-chumtha le haingeal ón tseanré.

Suíonn sé seal ar dhronn dearg na ndíonta
go dtí go bhfaigheann sé a anáil ar ais
i ndiaidh a thriallta fada thar achar na gcianta.

Go ciúin tumann sé san abhainn, a cholainn ríoga
ag spréacharnaigh roimhe agus ina dhiaidh;
niamhraíonn sé an t-uisce lena ghéaga diaga.

Déanann sé croí isteach le seantithe aoldaite na háite,
á gcuachadh is á muirniú sa chruth
go dtig gnaoi na gile i ngach gnúis a bhí breoite.

Spréann sé a thíolacthaí fáis go fial is go flaithiúil
i measc na n-ológ, na gcaora fíniúna, na bplumaí.
Cuireann sé luisne ghréine i gcneas na ngairdíní cúil.

Le teacht na hoíche cuachann sé suas i mbaclainn ghlas
na gcrann agus téann a chodladh go sochmaí,
bogcheol na bhfeithidí á thionlacan go deas.

Eisean mo chumann is mo ghrá geal, mo leannán aerga,
a thógann mo chroí le gach timpeallú gréine,
iontaoibh agam as a ghné, as a mhéin mhaorga.

Is beidh cumhaidh orm ina dhiaidh is mé ag scaradh leis go deo,
eisean a chlúdaigh mé go dlúth le laetha geala a ghrá
óir tá sé daite domh pilleadh abhaile ar bhailte beaga dorcha an cheo

 

BENFEITA, PORTUGAL

Here the brightness of sunlight commands me
streaming down from the blue hillocks of the sky –
the grace and shapeliness of angels from an age gone by.

It sits awhile on humpy red roofs
until it catches its breath once more
after its long journey to earth’s shore.

It quietly dips in the river, its regal body –
glistening all over – sings,
and the waters are beatified by its limbs.

It befriends the old lime-washed houses,
nestling among them with an embrace –
see now the vigour where once was a sickly face.

All of its bountiful gifts it spreads evenly, generously,
among olives, grapes and plums; all the while
back gardens are wreathed in a heavenly smile.

When night falls it curls up in the green lap
of trees and slumbers peacefully alone
nodding off to a gentle insect drone.

My love for ever, my fairy wooer
capturing my heart in gold and green
how I trust each glowing atom, your stately mien.

And oh how I shall miss you when I go –
for with honey I have been kissed –
bound once more for the foggy isle of mist!

NA BAILTE BÁNAITHE

(Do Eoin Mac Lochlainn)

Tráthnóna idir an dá sholas
tchím iad ag taibhsiú chugam
as ceo folaigh na nglúnta.

Mo sheanathair, muintir
mo mhuintire, tchím iad
ag obair amuigh faoin spéir,

Na fir ag buain i gcuibhrinn
nach bhfuil ann níos mó,
na mná ag blí na mbó

I mbuaile gréine na Míne
na páistí ag déanamh folachán
i measc stucaí agus síogán.

Fad m’amhairc uaim
tchím slua dea-bheo na marbh
ag tionól ar na seanfhóid

I mbailte beaga bánaithe
na mbunchnoc, i Mín na bPoll,
i bProchlais, i Mín na gCopóg.

Glúin ar ghlúin, amharc súl
de dhaoine ag siúl go réidh
as Mín m’aislinge, gach glúin i gcré.

Cumaidh orthu i ndiaidh na háite
a ghnáthaigh siad, na bailte seo
ar chaith siad a ré leo.

A gcoiscéim chomh ciúin
leis an oíche ag titim
is iad ar a mbealach ’na bhaile,

Cuing rúin orthu choíche
i ndiaidh na réigiúin a shiúl
ó Mhín na mBeo go Mín na Marbh

Deserted Townlands

(for Eoin Mac Lochlainn)

Evening between two lights
they loom before me
out of the mist that veils generations.

My grandfather, my people’s
people, I see them
toiling beneath the sky,

Men reaping in fields of oats
that have long since vanished,
women milking cows

In the sunny booley of Mín
children play hide-and-go-seek
among stooks and sheaves.

As far as the eye can see
the goodly living dead
have all gathered on the old sod,

In the small deserted townlands
of the foothills, in Mín na bPoll,
in Prochlais, in Mín na gCopóg.

Generation after generation, as many
as fill the eye solemnly stride
out of a visionary Mín, and all in the grave.

They pine for old haunts
these townlands
where, day in day out, they toiled.

As quiet as night descending
their footfall
wending their way home

bound to secrecy forever
having wandered the pastures
of the living and the dead.