Bolgbhrón
a tholgas
ar fán i gceo an Fhómhair
chothaíos é le bia,
do dheineas dó cocún
is do leag isteach i bpluais
go humhal
Tá suan mallaitheach
ag bagairt orm
le coicís
is mé ag alpadh dorchadais.
Ná labhair focal,
ná féach im threo
tá duifean ar mo chroí
nach n-ardófar
—Géillim don gheimhriú—
Ní aithneofar mé
go péacadh na mbachlóg.
Wintering
I caught a stomach-sorrow
while traipsing October’s fogs
I ate to nourish it
made a cocoon for it
laid it with slow reverence in a hollow
For fourteen nights
some cursed sleep’s been after me
while I’ve been up feeding on darkness
Don’t say a word
Don’t look in my direction
There’s something on my heart that can’t be lifted
—I give in to wintering—
You won’t see me till the buds start to blossom
–Translated from the Irish by Billy Ramsell