Dhera...

 

 

Teacht an Fhomhair, a’s na laethanta ‘dul gairid,

Crannaibh loma, a’s an ghealach ina h-áird-sheol,

I riocht an ghéoidh ghlais, éan na gárthaibh gairbhe,

‘Taisteal na bóithre a rith eadrainn, níorbh mhoill dom.

 

Glas iad na tonnta ‘briseadh ar tránna na hoileáin,

An ghaoth measc crainn coll, ‘caoineadh a cluintear ann;

Ní thaise den róin, a’s an damh ag buirigh ann;

‘S ann fós tógann a sheolta an t-éan seo deirim-se.

 

Ach is fada ó’n duíche sin ár máduinn ‘fograítear;

Measctha le radios ár solas-ne, a’s curam-lae duinn memos’

An seabhac méar, an ghé ghlas, insan bhall seo, ní fheictear iad;

A’s géar cráite fós fágtar i dtaobh leis an gcleite mé.

 

Autumn coming in, and the days run short,

Bare trees and the moon sailing high.

In the shape of the wild goose, that bird of the harsh cry,

I would not be long travelling the roads that lay between us.

 

Gray the waves breaking on the strand of the island;

the voice of the wind among the hazel bushes;

There the seal gives cry. There the stag bells;

There still the bird that I speak of stretches out his wings.

 

But it is far from that country that the day announces itself to us now:

Our morning light comes to us mixed with radios, and we fill our time with memos;

The vehement hawk, the wild goose, do not come into this place;

And with sharp sorrow, I turn to take up my pen.