No More Clichés
Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.
Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.
How many poems have been written to you?
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion
To your manufactured fantasy.
But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.
This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm,
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not in their fabricated looks.
This poem is to you women,
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles:
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battles for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.
Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.
From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars,
And so, no more clichés.
Níl a thuilleadh clíséanna uainn
Aghaidh álainn
Ar nós nóinín a osclaíonn a chuid peiteal don ghrian
Osclaíonn tusa
D’aghaidh domsa agus an leathanach á chasadh agam.
Miongháire aoibhinn,
Cá bhfuil an fear nach mbeadh faoi dhraíocht agat,
A spéirbhean na hirise, ó.
Cad iad na laoithe a cumadh duit?
An mó Dante a chuir peann le pár, a Bhé?
Dod’ sheachmall dúghafa
Do d’fhantaise mhonaraithe
Ach ní chuirfeadsa leis na clíséanna
Sa dán seo duitse.
Deireadh go deo le clíséanna.
Tá an dán seo tiomanta do na mná sin
Arb í an ghrástúlacht a n-áilleacht,
An mheabhair chinn,
An dea-chlú
Seachas a gcló saorga.
Daoibhse an dán seo, a mhná
A dhúisíonn gach maidin in bhur Seithearasáid daoibh
Is scéal nua agaibh le hinsint,
Scéal a chanann an claochló
Agus dúil sa chaismirt:
Caismirt ar son ghrá na colainne san aon
Caismirt ar son na bpaisean a ndúisíonn lá nua iad
Caismirt ar son na gceart gan aird
Nó caismirt díreach chun teacht as oíche eile slán.
Sea, daoibhse, a bhantracht i ndomhan péine
Duitse, réalta eolais na cruinne ata á caitheamh de shíor
Duitse, trodaí cath is míle
Duitse, a chara mo chléibh.
As seo amach ní cromtha os cionn irise a bheidh an ceann seo
Ach ag machnamh ar an oíche
Is ar na réaltaí geala,
Mar sin, deireadh go deo le clíséanna.
