Filleadh
Ag filleadh abhaile dhó i mbrothall na hiarnóna,
chuardaigh sé a mháthair i ngach aon bhall.
Ní sa chistin a bhí sí ná amuigh
sa chúlchlós, ní raibh teacht uirthi aon áit.
Chuardaigh sé is chuardaigh is tháinig scaoll air,
chuardaigh faoin leaba, is tháinig
ar sheanbhróga is millíní deannaigh, ní raibh sise ann.
Amach leis ar an tsráid, gach aon liú uaidh, Amma!
Cá bhfuil tú? Táim sa bhaile, tá ocras orm!
Freagra níor tháinig, ná an macalla féin
Ón tsráid thréigthe faoin ngrian scallta.
Go tobann smaoinigh sé go raibh sé seasca is a haon anois
Is ní raibh máthair aige le dhá scór bliain anuas.
A.K. Ramanujan
Returning
Returning home one blazing afternoon,
he looked for his mother everywhere.
She wasn’t in the kitchen, she wasn’t
in the backyard, she was not anywhere.
He looked and looked, grew frantic,
looked even under the beds, where he found
old shoes and dust balls, but not his mother.
He ran out of the house, shouting, Amma!
Where are you? I’m home, I’m hungry!
But there was no answer, not even an echo
in the deserted street blazing with sunshine.
Suddenly he remembered he was now sixty-one
and he hadn’t had a mother for forty years.
