Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh

Cloiseann sé fós é: díoscán an oighir, tormáil i bhfad uaidh, ciúnas an tsneachta. Is cuimhin leis go fóill an t-aer úr a shlogadh, an dá scamhóg aige glanta, fuacht naofa ag beannú a chnis. Thug sé grá a chroí don ghoimh gheal, don díseart tostach don tírdhreach glan. Ach b’éigean dó filleadh ar an taiseacht is ar an mbaile. Bhí air cúl a thabhairt don mbáine. Is iomaí oíche a iarrann a bhean air go caoin an chistin a fhágaint is dul léi a luí. Is aoibhinn leis uaigneas an tsileáin ón sconna. Is ceol aige srannán an reoiteora: Nótaí doimhne á seimint go mall, Gliúscáil ochlánach a labhair le gach ball dá bheo. He can still hear it: the glaciers rasping, their ratcheting in the distance, the snow-quiet. And still he remembers gulping unsullied freshness to clarify his lungs, the holy coldness blessing his skin. He gave his heart to that stinging brightness, that taciturn redoubt, that uncluttered country. But no choice except a return to dampness and home. He had to turn his back on blankness. On so many nights his wife asks him tentatively to abandon the kitchen and join her upstairs. He loves the irregular loneliness of each tap-drip and it’s music to him the refrigerator’s drone: basso profundo slow in the recital, grinding sighs that call out to his being’s every melting element. Translated from the Irish

Chonac smólach marbh sa choill é seargtha ar an screablach. Bhíos ag déanamh trua de nuair a tháinig madraí de rúid is thugadar ruathar fúm ag snapadh, ag glamadh agus drant orthu. Uaimse do tháinig liúbhéic, gach bagairt is buille coise: Bhí ina bhúirchath eadrainn. Chorraigh na ba sna goirt is chuireadar leis an gcór allta. Theith lucha is dallóga fraoigh isteach faoin doire donn, sheas madra rua ar shiolpa, a cholainn iomlán righin. Chuimhníos ar mo choisíocht; bhí ceithre chrúb fúm. I saw a thrush-corpse shriveling on the woodland’s scrabbly floor. I was busy pitying it when there came a harrying pack of strays that set about me; they bayed and snapped, growling bare-toothed. From my throat such roaring; my every curse and foot-swing made a bellow-war between us. Fields of agitated cattle augmented that wild choir. Mice and shrewmice shrunk back into the oakleaf brown interior as a fox reared upward on a stony ridge, its stance utterly rigid. I remembered to run, felt the four paws under me. Translated from the Irish by Billy Ramsell