Conas mar sin nach bhfuil éadóchas orainn?
Fealladh orainn, tá gach aon ní creachta díolta,
scríobann eite dhubh an bháis an t-aer,
creimeann an ainnise go cnámh.
Conas mar sin nach bhfuil éadóchas orainn?
Ó na coillte máguaird isló
séideann silíní an samhradh isteach faoin mbaile;
na spéartha móra glé istoíche
ag glioscarnach le réaltbhuíonta nua.
Tagann an ní míorúilteach an-ghar
do na tithe bréana scriosta -
rud nach eol do neach ar bith,
ach atá fiáin inár n-ucht leis na cianta.
Why then do we not despair?
Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,Death's great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses --
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.
