Author: Seán O’Riordáin (1916-1977)

Raghaidh mé síos i measc na ndaoine
De shiúl mo chos
Is raghaidh mé. síos anocht.

I’ll go out and mingle with people.
I’ll head down on my own two feet.
I’ll walk down tonight.

Raghaidh mé síos ag lorg daoirse
Ón mbinibshaoirse
Tá ag liú anseo:

I’ll go down looking for Confinedom,
counteract the rabid freedom
coursing here.

Is ceanglód an chonairt smaointe
Tá ag, drannadh im thimpeall
San uaigneas:

I’ll fetter the pack of snarling thoughts
hounding me
in my aloneness.

Is loirgeod an teampall rialta
Bhionn lán de dhaoine
Ag am fé leith:

I’ll look for a regular chapel
chock-a-block with people
at a set time.

Is loirgeod comhluadar daoine
Nár chleacht riamh saoirse,
Ná uaigneas:
Is éistfead leis na scillingsmaointe,
A malartaítear
Mar airgead:

I’ll seek the company of folk
who never practise freedom,
nor aloneness,
and listen to pennythoughts
exchanged
like something coined.

Is bhféarfad gean mo chroí do dhaoine
Nár samhlaidh riamh leo
Ach macsmaointe.

I’ll bear affection for people
without anything original
in their stockthoughts.

Ó fanfad libh de ló is d’oiche,
Is beidh mé íseal,
Is beidh mé dílis,
D’bhur snabsmaointe.

I’ll stay with them day and night.
I’ll be humble
and loyal to their snuffed minds

Mar do chuala iad ag fás im intinn,
Ag fás gan chuimse,
Gan mheasarthacht.

since I heard them
rising in my mind
without control.

Is do thugas gean mo chroí go fíochmhar
Don rud tá srianta,
Don gach macrud:

I’ll give all my furious affection
to everything that binds them
to every stockthing:

Don smacht, don reacht, don teampall daoineach,
Don bhfocal bocht coitianta
Don am fé leith:

to control, to contracts, to the communal temple,
to the poor common word,
to the concise time,

Don ab, don chlog, don seirbhiseach
Don chomparáid fhaitíosach,
Don bheaguchtach:

to the cowl, to the cockerel, to the cook,
to the weak comparison,
to the coward,

Don luch, don tomhas, don dreancaid bhideach,
Don chaibidil, don líne
Don aibítir:

to the cosy mouse, to the cost, to the covert flea,
to the code, to the codex,
to the codicil,

Don mhórgacht imeachta is tíochta,
Don chearrbhachas istoíche,
Don bheannachtain:

to the cocky coming and going,
to the costly night gambling,
to the conferred blessing,

Don bhfeirmeoir ag tomhas na gaoithe
Sa bhfómhar is é ag cuirnhneamh
Ar pháirc eornan:

to the concerned farmer testing
the wind, contemplating
a field of corn,

Don chomhthuiscint, don chomh-sheanchuimhne,
Do chomhiompar comhdhaoine,
Don chomh-mhacrud

to co-understanding, to co-memory,
to the co-behaviour of co-people,
to the co-stockthing.

Is bheirim fuath anois is choíche
Do imeachtaí na saoirse,
Don neamhspleáchas.

And I condemn now and forever
the goings-on of freedom,
independence.

And I condemn now and forever
the goings-on of freedom,
independence.

Is atuirseach an intinn
A thit in iomar doimhin na saoirse,
Ní mhaireann cnoc dar chruthaigh Dia ann,
Ach cnoic theibi, sainchnoic shamhlaíochta.
Is bíonn gach cnoc díobh lán de mhianta
Ag dreapadóireacht gan chomhlíonadh,
Nil teora leis an saoirse
Ná le cnoca na samhlaíochta,
Ná níl teora leis na mianta,
Ná faoiseamh
Le fail.

The mind is finished
that falls into the abyss of freedom.
There’s no hills made by god there,
only abstract hills — specifically of the imagination.
Every hill crawls with desires
that climb without ever reaching fulfilment.
There’s no limit to freedom
on Mount Fancy,
nor is there limit to desire,
nor any relief
to be found.