An uair sin
An uair sin tar éis na mblianta fada
de dhiansaothar is d’aistear éachtach
nuair a sheasann tú i lár an tseomra
nó sa tigh, an leathacra, an míle cearnach, an t-oileán, an tír,
agus fhios agat sa deireadh conas a tharla ann duit,
is deir tú, Is liomsa é seo,
Sin í an uair, leis, a scaoilfidh na crainn
dá ngéaga boga timpeall ort,
tógfaidh an éanlaith a dteanga ar ais,
scoiltfidh na haillte is sceithfidh,
cúbfaidh an t-aer uait ina thonn tuile
is ní thiocfaidh t’anáil chugat.
Ní hea, ar siad. Ní leat aon ní.
Cuairteoir a bhí ionat, ag dreapadh an chnoic
arís is arís eile, an bhratach á cur. An forógra.
Níor leat riamh sinn.
Níor tháinig tú riamh orainn.
Droim ar ais ab ea é riamh.
~ Margaret Atwood ~
(morning in the burned house)
The Moment
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
~ Margaret Atwood ~
(morning in the burned house)
