Fia-Chailleach
Samhlaigh duine de na mná gránna sincolainn chraptha, gialla tite,
srón chromógach mhíchumtha, fiacla ag gobadh amach,
braoithe fiata dlútha bána,
Dlaoithe fada giobacha suaracha
ag titim thar a guaillí cama,
lámha meata agus méara cranraithe,
míle splanc ag éalú as a dhá súil.
Sceitse den bháirseach lofa é sin
í á léiriú le gualach.
Arsa an duine stuama a d’fheicfeadh í, ‘A leithéid de bhrúid!’
An gnáthdhuine, beireann ar mhaide, gearrann fíor na croise air féin
is ar sé de mhonabhar: “Mo ghraidhin í! Bean téagartha!
Is treise í ná Rí Solamh!’
The Witch
Imagine one of those vile old womenshrunken body, sunken jaws,
aquiline and ugly nose, jutting teeth,
thick, fierce and white eye-brows,
Long, shaggy and squalid tresses,
crowding over her bent shoulders,
shrunken hands and knotted fingers,
her eyes blaze out a thousand sparks.
This is the sketch of that vile shrew
delineated only in charcoal.
The serious man see her and exclaims “What a beast!”
The common man grabs a stick,
blesses himself and mutters “Hail! Such a tough woman!
More powerful than King Solomon!!!”
Slánú
(Chrom sé a cheann agus thug uaidh a spiorad, Eoin, 19:30)A cheann cromtha, é ag foghlaim an bháis,
slán á rá aige den uair dheireanach
- siombail den fhiúntas lonrach –
an Fáidh ardchéimiúil, Dia ina Dhuine.
Chrith an domhan ar a insí suaracha
an duairceas ina bhrat anuas air,
eirmín ina néal
ó Gheitséamainí go Calvaire
Á! Uafás! Lá na barbarachta!
Muire ag geonaíl
i ndeireadh na feide: ‘Mo chreach!’
An taoiseach céid ag breathnú ar íobairt seo
an anama ghlé agus liúnn a choinsias os ard
‘Dar mo lámh, ní fhéadfadh éinne é a fhulaingt
ach Mac Dé féin.’
Redemption
(And he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. Jn., 19:30)Head bowed, dying,
he had uttered his last goodbye,
- a symbol of all that is worthy and radiant -
the eminent Prophet, the Man-God.
The earth shook on its mean hinges
gloom enveloped it like a shroud,
ermine turned to pall
from Gethsemane to Calvary!
Ah! Horror! What a barbaric moment!
Disconsolate, Mary
murmured between sobs: “O me!”
The centurion beheld the host of innocence
sacrificed, and with a hand over his conscience
cried out “Only the Son of God
can suffer so.”
(Almanach de Recreio, Nova Goa, edited by Carmo Caraciolo Coelho, 1893)
An tAinrialaí
Tigh tábhairne ainnis agus diabhal bochtdarbh ainm Tadeu ina shuí sa doras
oíche gheimhridh is é ag machnamh . . .
cad air? . . . cá bhfios.
Taobh leis bhí laindéar,
sháigh sé a lámh thanaí ina phóca,
tharraing amach scian agus d’fhógair
‘Díoltas go deo!’ le fuarchúis an aindiachaí!
Agus chuir sé leis: ‘Obair gan mhaith í obair an bháicéara;
Triallfad ar ghiúistís na cathrach féachaint an gcabhródh sé liom
is cóisteoir a dhéanamh díom;
Mura ndéanfaidh, má dhéanann sé neamhshuim díom,
leis an laindéar agus leis an scian seo
Beidh marú is loisceadh ann anocht is go brách!’
The Anarchist
At the door of a miserable taverna poor devil named Tadeu
could be seen sitting, one winter night
pondering… who knows what?
By his side he had a lantern,
he thrust his bony hand into his pocket,
pulled out a knife, and “Eternal vengeance”
he exclaimed with an atheist’s indifference!
Then he added “The work of a baker
is bad; I am going to find out if the municipal magistrate
will help me and make me his coachman;
if he does not, if he disregards me,
with this lantern, with this knife
I will cause fires and death without end!!!”
Almanaque Litterário, 1895. Bastora, Goa, edited by J. do R. Crisólogo Borges, 1894.
