Paidir

Paidir

Bronn orm an neart chun breathnú ort, gile
na gréine a fhulaingt;
an neart chun rabhadh a thabhairt do longa i gcéin
lem' dhrumadóireacht, a bheith im' phéarladóir,
traein bhréige a thiomáint,
teacht slán as gorta,
íocshláinte a bhaint as trilseáin
an enfant femme.
Bronn orm, uair amháin eile, seachmall.
Agus bíodh is nach Sócraitéas ar bith mé,
bronn orm fís éisteachta, chun go snámhfainn
i sruthanna thírdhreacha na bhfilí Francacha,
iad leath ar oscailt, ar snámh i mo chuid fola.

Bronn orm aibítir
an eitleáin agus na cathrach
a ligfeadh dom suí taobh le seanmháthair chríonna.
Bronn orm arís eile dréimire
mar sheachmall
chun go ndreapfainn Chugatsa,
chugamsa.

Prabodh Parikh

Prayer

Grant me the strength to look at you, to bear the radiance
of the sun;
the strength to alert faraway ships by my drumbeats,
to be a pearl diver,
to drive a toy-train,
to survive a famine,
to extract the magic potion from the tresses
of the enfant femme.
Grant me, once more, an illusion.
And though I am no Socrates,
grant me the vision to hear, to swim
in the currents of the landscapes of French poets
which, half-open, float away in my blood.

Grant me an alphabet
of airplane and city,
which would let me sit by an ageing grandmother.
Grant me, once more, the illusion
of a ladder
to climb to You,
to me.

Prabodh Parikh