t h e  g r e a t  b o o k  o f  g a e l i c

a n  l e a b h a r  m r

 


Neach-ealain / Artist: Alastair MacLennan
Snas-sgrobhadair / Calligrapher: Frances Breen
Eadar-theangaichte aig / Translator: The Author
Roghainn / Nominator: The Author

 

Tha mi nam shuidhe ag isdeachd ribh
agus tha mo chridh a tuigsinn
barrachd na mo chlaisneachd;
s mo shilean a toirt a-steach
barrachd na mo chluasan.

Ur guth simh, ur cainnt
ag irigh s a tuiteam mar thonn
air aghaidh fhuar a chuain
s an drst s a-rithist a briseadh
air creag bhiorach cuimhne;
s an sl a tighinn gu brr
ann an glas-chuan ur silean.

Bha e air an rp
an uair a bhris e ...

Agus bhris ur cridhe cuideachd
le call an rpa chalma
air an robh grim gridheil agaibh
fhad s a bha sibh a sreap suas
nur leanabh.

Agus, aig aois deich bliadhna,
cha robh agaibh ach cuimhne air a chreig
a bhiodh gur cumail cmhnard;
s gach dchas a bha nur silean
air a bhthadh tron oidhch ud,
s tro gach Bliadhn Ur a lean.

Chirich iad a chreag
agus dhfhg sin toll.
Chruadhaich an sl ur beatha
agus chm e am pian r;
agus dhfhuirich e nur silean
cho goirt s a bha e riamh;
agus tha pian na caillich
cho geur ri pian na nighinn,
agus tha ur cridhe
a briseadh s r
a cuimhneachadh ur h-athar.

... oir bha athair agam ...
 

 

 

I sit listening to you
and my heart understands
more than my hearing;
and my eyes absorb
more than my ears.

Your soft voice, your speech
rising and falling like waves
on the cold surface of the sea,
and now and again breaking
on the sharp rock of memory;
and the brine rises up
in the grey seas of your eyes.

He was on the rope
when it broke...

And your heart also broke
with the loss of the sturdy rope
which you had clung to lovingly
while you were growing up
as a child

And, at ten years of age,
you had only a memory of the rock
that used to keep you straight;
and every hope that was in your eyes
was drowned on that night
and through each New Year that followed.

They buried the rock
and that left a hole;
the salt hardened your life
and kept the pain fresh;
and it stayed in your eyes
as stinging as it ever was;
and the old woman's pain is
as keen as the girls's,
and your heart breaks anew
remembering your father.

...because I had a father...
 

 

 

poem index An Leabhar Mr cover page next poem

 

next article


contents download subscribe archive