Finscéal (Fairytale)
Tell me that story again …
Díbeartach ab ea í sin,
glan amach as finscéal
ón bhFionnlainn,
súile chomh mór le fochupáin,
is gruaig chomh fionn
go gcaithfí an focal a chumadh
mura mbeadh sé ann cheana
le teacht ar ghile a foilt.
Bhíothas sa tóir uirthi
is bhíomar sa bhforaois
nár foraois in aon chor
ach trá airgid in aice le cloch na rón.
Bhíos ag gabháil roimpi,
ag réiteach na slí di,
mar a mheasas,
mo dhá chois fathaigh
báite sa sneachta,
nár sneachta in aon chor
ach gaineamh bhuí
a bhí déanta ag túirne
na samhlaíochta thar oíche.
Bhíos á griogadh is á gríosadh
le coimeád suas liom
ach ní fhéadfainn
féachaint im dhiaidh
ar eagla m’eagla féin.
Bhí sise ag canadh
chomh hard is a a bhí inti
le misneach a thabhairt dúinn beirt,
is bhí a fhios agam ar a shonsan
nach dtiocfadh sí suas liom go deo.
Má fhanann tú léi,
adúirt mo choinsias glan,
béarfar ar an mbeirt agaibh
is caithfidh duine éigin teacht slán
chun go mairfidh a scéal
ina diaidh, go mbeidh a fhios
ag an saol is a máthair
gur dheinis-se do dhícheall
ach go háirithe.
I bhfad tar éis dóibh
a cuid focal a cheangal
is ceirt ramhar an chiúnais
a chur siar ina béal briste,
airím, is dóigh liom,
a glór caoin ag dul faoi
sna poill atá tochailte
ag sluaiste troma mo bhróg,
an t-amhrán céanna i gcónaí
á rá go leanfaidh sí
go himeall an domhain mé
agus thairis amach más gá,
nach gcoimeádfaidh sí siar go brách mé
ó na harda atá ceaptha
ó thús an tsaoil dom leithéid.
Tá a fhios agam, ar sise,
nach bhfágfadh sé go brách mé
mura gcaithfeadh sé dul ar aghaidh
ar mo shonsa. Ar mo shonsa amháin
a d’fhág sé ina dhiaidh mé.
Tell me that story again …
Fairytale
She was a refugee,
straight out of a fairytale from Finland,
with eyes as big as saucers
and hair so fair
the word would have to be invented
if it wasn’t already there
to match the brightness
swept back from her face.
They were after her,
and we were deep inside the forest
that wasn’t a forest at all
only a silver strand beside Cloch na Rón.
I was ahead of her,
preparing the way, or so I thought,
my two giant feet buried in snow
that wasn’t snow at all
only golden sand
spun from the loom
of imagination over night.
I was coaxing and cajoling her
to keep up with me
too afraid of being afraid
to look behind me. She was singing
as loud as she could to keep our spirits up,
and I knew she would never ever catch up with me.
If you wait for her, my conscience said,
they’ll catch both of you
and one of you must get through
to tell what happened here,
so the world and its mother will know
that you, at least, did everything you could.
For a long time after
they have tied her words
and gagged her broken mouth
with the filthy rags of silence,
I can hear, I think, her sweet voice sinking
in the holes dug up
by the heavy shovels of my shoes.
I hear the same song over and over,
telling them she would follow me
to the ends of the earth
and further if she had to,
that she would never keep me back
from the heights that I and others like me
were destined to climb
since the beginning of time.
I know, she says, he would never
have left me, only he had to
keep going for my sake.
He left me for my sake.