| Fiabhras | Fever |
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| Fiabhras | Fever |
| Tá sléibhte na leapa mós ard, Tá breoiteacht ’na brothall ’na lár, Is fada an t-aistear urlár, Is na mílte is na mílte i gcéin Tá suí agus seasamh sa saol. Atáimid i gceantar bráillín, Ar éigean más cuimhin linn cathaoir, Ach bhí tráth sar ba mhachaire sinn, In aimsir choisíochta fadó, Go mbímis chomh hard le fuinneog. Tá pictiúir ar an bhfalla ag at, Tá an fráma imithe ina lacht, Ceal creidimh ní féidir é bhac, Tá nithe ag druidim fém dhéin, Is braithim ag titim an saol. Tá ceantar ag taisteal ón spéir, Tá comharsanacht suite ar mo mhéar, Dob fhuirist dom breith ar shéipéal, Tá ba ar an mbóthar ó thuaidh, Is níl ba na síoraíochta chomh ciúin. |
The mountainous climb out of the bed, Its sickly sweltering core Is a long way from the floor. Miles and miles away People still sit and stand. We’re here in the locality of sheets. We can barely recall a chair. Once we stood sound on level ground, In a time of walking, long ago. We were as tall as the window. A picture swells off the wall. The frame melts into a haze. A lack of faith can’t halt it. Things close in around me, The world comes apart. A locality is forming in the ether, A neighbourhood perches on my finger. I could easily pluck off a chapel. There are cows on the road to the north. The cows of eternity are not as quiet. |
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Seán Ó Ríordáin |
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| Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: |
Aisling Ó Beirn The Artist Greg Delanty Liam Ó Muirthile |
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