le Séamas Ó Neachtain
Faoi cheann cúpla uair an chloig,
Ní raibh ann de ach adhmad
Briste, deannach plástair,
Tairní, scriúnna is sreanga
Scaoilte, boscaí tithe is crann beag bídeach,
Ráillí casta mar a thiocfadh Siorman isteach
Ar a shlí go hAtlanta,
Carn bruscair i lár an urláir;
D'imigh an traein dheireanach.
Bíonn an
millteanas gearr,
Géar, goilliúnach, gasta.
Caitheamh aimsire na mblianta
Imithe le gaoth, mar tusa.
Chonaic mé cruinneas do phlean,
Áilleacht do chuid saothair,
An saol beag a bhí i d'intinn,
Áthas an chruthaitheora;
A lán rudaí nár thug mé faoi deara.
Bhí an t-am
thart.
Bhí sceideal ann nach bhfacamar.
Tá an aimsir caite.
Tá na píosaí scuabtha.
Beidh an siléar folamh
Do na daoine nua.
Cloisim fós na traenacha ag dul timpeall.
Feicim fós tú i do sheasamh rompu.
An bhfuil traenacha ann mar a bhfuil tú?
On Taking Down My Father's Train Table
By James Norton
In just a few hours,
There was nothing there but broken
Wood, plaster dust,
Nails, screws and loosed
Wires, boxes of houses and little tiny trees,
Bent rails as if Sherman would come in
On his way to Atlanta,
A pile of garbage in the middle of the floor;
The last train had left.
Destruction is always short,
Sharp, painful, quick.
Years of pastime
Gone with the wind, like you.
I saw the exactness of your plan,
The beauty of your labor,
The little world which was in your mind,
The joy of the creator;
Lots of things that I hadn't noticed.
The time was up.
There was a schedule we hadn't seen.
The time is past.
The pieces are swept.
The cellar will be empty
For the new people.
I still hear the trains going 'round.
I still see you standing before them.
Are there trains where you are?
Gach ceart ar cosnamh. © 2004 James Norton