Ina sciortaí fada lachna lean ár sinsir mhná
cosáin na nglúnta a chuaigh rompu,
fiú agus grian ag tonnadh teaspaigh orthu teannaíodh brait fána gcloigne
iad traochta ag teagasc agus traidisiún a bhí ordaithe ag an oidhreacht dóibh, gan acmhainn ina gcosa
tabhairt fá chonairí
a measadh nár dhual dóibh a shiúl.
Ina áit sin,
rinne siad tuairgnín a oibriú sa bhaile agus dhírigh aird ar an timireacht, tuairim agus intinn á bhfolú
taobh thiar de sheáltaí a fáisceadh go teann
ar ghrágáin liatha neamhbhearrtha, iad ag ligean orthu
gurbh é sin an saol a bhí roghnaithe acu; saol a bhí chun a leasa.
Agus iad ag tindeáil ar pháistí nó ag maistreadh bainne,
bhíodh rannta urnaí ag titim óna mbéal focail a bhí in ainm is míniú a thabhairt ar chuspóir a streachailte.
Beag a shíl siad go rachadh sé doiligh ar shliocht a sleachta cuimhneamh
ar fhocail nó ar orduithe sagart,
go siúlfadh a gcuid ‘níonacha gan seál ná srian idir na bachtaí sléibhe agus an Bhaictria.
The Women of Kabul
In their long dull drab skirts our own ancestral women
followed the long-trodden path of years. Even when the hot sun sucked their sweat they wrapped their shawls about their heads and made their way by habit and tradition following their lot in life,
their footsteps unable to trod those other forbidden paths that were not theirs to walk.
Instead of that
they learned how to pound the pestle at home and ply their household chores
burying mind and intellect behind woolly shawls which tightened on
bristly scrags of unshaven hair on chins.
The pretence was
that this was the life well-chosen, for their own benefit, of course.
And while they tended to their children or churned the milk
prayers and blessings fell from their lips in words which explained the reason for their endless struggle.
They never thought that their children’s children would ever dream of listening to
the preaching of the priest, or to unholy words, that their daughters’ daughters
would walk despite shawl or statute beyond the bog or the Bactrian.
Alan Titley a d’aistrigh