Eitleog do Mhichael agus Christopher
I gcaitheamh thráthnóna an Domhnaigh sin
d’eitil eitleog os cionn an Domhnaigh
éadan druma teann, lóchán san aer.
Chonac á déanamh í, liath, sleamhain,
chnagas í nuair a thriomaigh, bán, righin,
cheanglaíos boghanna de nuachtán
dá heireaball sé troithe ar fad.
Ach anois, féach in airde í ina fuiseoigín dubh
í sraonta faoi mar go mba rópa á tharraingt
í an téad chun scoil éisc
a ardú.
Deir cara liom nach bhfuil san anam
ach meáchan naoscaí,
an t-anam úd ar ancaire, ámh,
an téad ag tabhairt uaithi nó ag éirí,
tá meáchan iomaire ann a tugadh suas chun na bhflaitheas.
Sula dtumann sí sa choill
is sula n-éiríonn an líne lag
tóg in bhur dhá lámh í, a leaideanna, agus
braithigí tarraingt is méarú fréamhaithe fadruballach an bhróin.
Is é bhur ndúchas é.
Seasaigí anseo romham anois
is teannaigí.
A Kite for Michael and Christopher
All through that Sunday afternoon
a kite flew above Sunday,
a tightened drumhead, a flitter of blown chaff.
I'd seen it grey and slippy in the making,
I'd tapped it when it dried out white and stiff,
I'd tied the bows of newspaper
along its six-foot tail.
But now it was far up like a small black lark
and now it dragged as if the bellied string
were a wet rope hauled upon
to lift a shoal.
My friend says that the human soul
is about the weight of a snipe,
yet the soul at anchor there,
the string that sags and ascends,
weighs like a furrow assumed into the heavens.
Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand in here in front of me
and take the strain.
Seamus Heaney
Is féidir agallamh le Heaney a léamh anseo:
Tá an leabhar Conlán ar fáil anseo:
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