‘D’fhéadfadh mo sheanathairsa níos mó móna a ghearradh in aon lá
Ná aon fhear eile ar phortach Tone
Uair amháin, d’iompraíos buidéal bainne dó
Corcáilte go tútach le páipéar. Righnigh sé in airde
Len é a ól, is chrom isteach air láithreach bonn
Ag eangú is ag slisniú go néata, ag caitheamh scraitheanna
Thar ghualainn leis, ag baint níos doimhne is níos doimhne
I gcóir na clochmhóine. Ag baint.’
Sliocht aistrithe agam féin. Seo thíos an bundán Béarla.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
No comments:
Post a Comment