Grá

Grá

Is é is brí leis an ngrá ná foghlaim conas breathnú ort féin

Faoi mar a bhreathnófá ar nithe i bhfad uait

Mar níl ionatsa ach ní amháin i measc an iliomad nithe.

Agus an té a bhreathnaíonn amhlaidh leigheasfar a chroí,

Gan fhios dó féin, ar ghalair gan áireamh.

Labhróidh an t-éan agus an crann leis: A chara.

 

Beidh fonn ansin air é féin is an uile ní a úsáid

Chun go seasfaidh siad faoi loinnir na haibíochta.

Is cuma mura bhfuil a fhios aige cad air a bhfuil sé ag friotháil:

Ní gá go mbeadh tuiscint ghlan ag an bhfriothálaí fónta.

Love

Love means to learn to look at yourself

The way one looks at distant things

For you are only one thing among many.

And whoever sees that way heals his heart,

Without knowing it, from various ills.

A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things

So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.

It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:

Who serves best doesn't always understand.

~ Czesław Miłosz ~

(New & Collected Poems 1931-2001)

LUVE

Luve means learin tae leuk it yersel

The wey ye leuk it faurawa things

Fir ye'r only yin thingum amang monie.

An whaeivver seis yon wey heals's hert ,

wi'oot kennin it, frae sindry seiknesses.

Burd'n tree cry'm: Neebour

Syne he ettles tae yaise his sel an awthing

Sae they micht staun i the leam o ripeness.

It disnae maiter whither he kes whae he sers o no:

Whae sers brawest disnae ayewis unnerstaun.

John McDonald

É seo amháin

This Only

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map leads him there.
Or perhaps memory. Once long ago in the sun,
When snow first fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast in motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.
 

Czesław Miłosz

É seo amháin

Gleann agus os a chionn foraoisí faoi dhathanna an fhómhair.
Tagann taistealaí, mapa a thugann ann é.
Nó cuimhne éigin seans. Tráth dá raibh faoin ngrian
Nuair a thit an chéad sneachta, is é ag marcaíocht sa treo seo
Bhraith sé ríméad, neart, gan chúis,
Ríméad na súl. Rithim na gcrann luaineach
Ab ea gach aon ní, éan ar eite,
Traein ar an tarbhealach, féasta gluaiseachta.
Filleann sé ar an áit tamall maith ina dhiaidh sin
Gan d’éileamh aige ach aon ní fíorluachmhar amháin:
Radharc simplí a fháil, gan ainm,
Gan tnúth, gan eagla ná dóchas,
Ar an imeall gan mise ná neamh-mhise ann.

 

(The Collected Poems, 1931-1987, trans. by Robert Hass)

Aυτό μόνο

Mια κοιλάδα και πάνω της δάση σε χρώματα φθινοπώρου.
Ένας ταξιδιώτης καταφθάνει, ένας χάρτης τον οδηγεί εκεί.
Ή ίσως η μνήμη. Μια φορά πριν από καιρό στον ήλιο,
όταν χιόνι έπεσε πρώτη φορά, προχωρώντας σε αυτόν τον δρόμο
αισθάνθηκε χαρούμενος, δυνατός, χωρίς αιτία,
Χάρμα οφθαλμών. Όλα ήταν ρυθμός
των δέντρων που εναλλάσονταν, ενός πουλιού σε πτήση
ενός τραίνου στην οδογέφυρα, μία κινούμενη πανδαισία.
Επιστρέφει χρόνια μετά, δεν έχει απαιτήσεις.
Θέλει μόνον ένα, το πιο πολύτιμο  πράγμα:
Να δει, καθαρά και απλά, χωρίς όνομα,
Χωρίς προσδοκίες, φόβους ή ελπίδες,
Στo όριο όπου δεν υπάρχει εγώ ή μη-εγώ.
  

Leagan Gréigise: Sarah Thilykou

Czesław Miłosz: É Seo Amháin

This Only

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map leads him there.
Or perhaps memory. Once long ago in the sun,
When snow first fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast in motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.
 

~ Czesław Miłosz ~

(The Collected Poems, 1931-1987, trans. by Robert Hass)

 

É Seo Amháin

Gleann agus os a chionn foraoisí faoi dhathanna an fhómhair.
Tagann taistealaí, mapa a thugann ann é.
Nó cuimhne éigin seans. Tráth dá raibh faoin ngrian
Nuair a thit an chéad sneachta, is é ag marcaíocht sa treo seo
Bhraith sé ríméad, neart, gan chúis,
Ríméad na súl. Rithim na gcrann luaineach
Ab ea gach aon ní, éan ar eite,
Traein ar an tarbhealach, féasta gluaiseachta.
Filleann sé ar an áit tamall maith ina dhiaidh sin
Gan d’éileamh aige ach aon ní fíorluachmhar amháin:
Radharc simplí a fháil, gan ainm,
Gan tnúth, gan eagla ná dóchas,
Ar an imeall gan mise ná neamh-mhise ann.
 

This Anely

A glen an abuin it a wuid in hairst's colours.
A traiveler wins in, a map airts'm thair.
Or aiblins a myndin. Yince langsyne i the sin,
Whan snaw furst fell, ridin this wey
He felt joy, strang, wi nae rhyme nor raison.
Joy o the een. Awthing wis the lilt
O sweyin treen, o a burd in flicht,
O a train on the brig, a bellyrive o muivement.
He retours years efter, seekin naethin.
He langs fir yin maist precious theeng:
Tae sei, pure'n semple, wi'oot nem,
Wi'oot greenin, dreid, nor howps,
It the lip whaur thair's nae I an nae no-I

Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald      

Czesław Miłosz: Dóchas

DÓCHAS

Is é is dóchas ann nuair is dóigh leat
nach taibhreamh é an domhan ach feoil bheo,
nach éitheach iad an radharc, an tadhall, an éisteacht,
is an uile ní atá feicthe anseo agat
gur geall le gairdín é is tú ag breathnú air ón ngeata.

Níl cead isteach agat. Ach is cinnte go bhfuil sé ann.
Dá mbeadh ar ár gcumas féachaint air le grinneas is le gaois
cá bhfios nach dtiocfaimis áit éigin sa ghairdín
ar bhláth nua aisteach éigin agus réalt nár ainmníodh fós.

Deir daoine áirithe nach ceart ár súile a thrust
nach bhfuil aon ní ann dáiríre ach dealramh éigin.
Sin iad an dream atá gan dóchas.
Is dóigh leo a luaithe is a iompóimid uaidh
go dtéann an domhan as, laistiar dár ndroim
sciobtha mar dhea ag baicle gadaithe.

Hope

Hope is with you when you believe
The earth is not a dream but living flesh,
That sight, touch, and hearing do not lie,
That all things you have ever seen here
Are like a garden looked at from a gate.

You cannot enter. But you're sure it's there.
Could we but look more clearly and wisely
We might discover somewhere in the garden
A strange new flower and an unnamed star.

Some people say we should not trust our eyes,
That there is nothing, just a seeming,
These are the ones who have no hope.
They think that the moment we turn away,
The world, behind our backs, ceases to exist,
As if snatched up by the hands of thieves.

Czeslaw Milosz