It saw what it saw, it knew what it knew.
In youth my mind was just a mirror
In a rapidly flying car,
Which catches and loses bits of the landscape.
Then in time
Great scratches were made on the mirror,
Letting the outside world come in,
And letting my inner self look out.
For this is the birth of the soul in sorrow,
A birth with gains and losses.
The mind sees the world as a thing apart,
And the soul makes the world at one with itself.
A mirror scratched reflects no image —
And this is the silence of wisdom.
~ Ernest Hyde ~ (Spoon River Anthology)
Scáthán ab ea m’aigne:
chonaic sí a bhfaca sí, b’eol di an rud ab eol.
Le linn m’óige ní raibh i m’aignese ach scáthán
i ngluaisteán faoi ardluas,
a bheireann ar chodanna den tírdhreach
is a chailleann iad. Ansin le himeacht ama
tharla go raibh scríoba móra ar an scáthán
a lig don domhan lasmuigh teacht isteach
is a lig don mise istigh breathnú amach.
Breith an anama i mbuairt is ea é sin,
breith a bhfuil bua is caillteanas ag baint léi.
Féachann an aigne ar an domhan mar rud lasmuigh di
is déanann an t-anam an domhan ina chuid de féin.
An scáthán scríobtha ní dhéanann íomhá a fhrithchaitheamh –
gaois an tosta is ea é sin.
Ma mynd wis a keekin gless:
It seen whit it seen, an kent whit it kent.
In youtheid ma mynd wis juist a keekin gless
In a car stoorin by,
Whilk keps then losses pairts o the lanscape.
Syne in time
Muckle scarts kythit on the keekin gless,
Latten the ootside warl cum in,
An latten ma inby sel leuk oot.
Fir yon's the birth o the sowl in dool,
A birth wi winnins an tynins.
The mynd glisks the warl as a thingum apairt,
An the sowl maks the warl it yin wi itsel
A scartit keekin gless reflecks nae eemage -
This is the quate o wiceheid.
