White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(House of Light)
Eitlíonn Ulchabhán Bán Isteach Sa Ghort is Amach Arís
Ag teacht anuas ón spéir reoite
As duibheagán solais,
Mar aingeal, nó mar Bhúda sciathánach,
B’álainn é agus ba chruinn,
An sneachta á bhualadh aige is pé ní a bhí ann
Le fórsa a d’fhág cló
Bharr a chuid sciathán – cúig troithe óna chéile –
agus snapadh an chroibh,
móide rianú an ní a bhí ag rith
trí ghleanntáin bhána an tsneachta –
is in airde leis ansin go grástúil
gur eitil ar ais go dtí an riasc reoite,
faoi scáth, mar a bheadh tigín solais ann,
sna scáileanna gorma –
is seo ag machnamh mé:
samhlaigh nach dorchadas é an bás tar éis an tsaoil
ach an solas ár gclúdach ar fad –
chomh bog le clúmh –
agus i bpreab na súl is tinn den fhéachaint sinn
dúnaimid na súile, ní gan alltacht é,
is ligimid dúinn féin seoladh
ar thréshoilseacht míoca
go dtí an abhainn sin nach bhfuil breactha ag scáth,
nach bhfuil inti ach solas – solas dearg te aortach –
ina nitear sinn arís is arís eile
as ár gcnámha
