Bhí dhá chnuasach de chuid Günter Grass
aistrithe go Gaeilge agam.
Nuair a bhuaileamar le chéile i mBaile Átha Cliath
rug sé barróg orm faoi mar a bheadh sé
ag breith barróige ar a mháthair.
Níorbh í an Ghearmáinis a labhair a mháthair
ar ndóigh, ach Caisiúibis.
Mar sin, ní i dteanga a mháthar
a bhí Grass ag scríobh
ná mise ach oiread, chun na fírinne a rá.
Filí gan mháthair ab ea sinn araon, ar shlí.
Tá na mílte eile sa chás céanna.
Is gearr go mbeidh filí uile an domhain
ina ndílleachtaí.
Léireodh Grass a chumas mar ealaíontóir
ar ball
taispeántas a tharraing a chuid inspioráide
as tréimhse a chaith sé in Kolkata
taispeántas dar teideal Taispeáin do Theanga.
Show Your Tongue
I had translated two volumes of poems
by Günter Grass into Irish.
When we met in Dublin
he embraced me warmly
as though embracing his mother.
His mother, after all, spoke Kashubian,
not German.
Grass was not writing in his mother’s tongue
nor was I, for that matter.
We were motherless poets, in a sense.
There are thousands like us.
How long before the poets of the world
become motherless?
Later, Grass demonstrated his prowess
as an artist,
an exhibition which drew its inspiration
from a residency in Kolkata
called Show Your Tongue.
