| An Frog Sa Bhucaeid | The Frog in the Bucket |
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| An Frog Sa Bhucaeid | The Frog in the Bucket |
| Tá frog sa bhucaeid. Cá fhad anois ansin é? Is ar éigean beo: Ní bhogann an scórnach, Tá mogall ar na súile, Tá an craiceann iomlán tirim, É ina ghlóthach seirgthe, É ar dhath luaithreach na móna thart air, É ina chac tirim caora ag an mhóin, Ina chamal caillte sa ghaineamhlach shinciarainn. Tiontaigh an bucaeid bun os cionn, Nó ní cónra mhiotail é dá leithéid shoineanta Nár thuill an cillín buí. Amharc air. Bogann sé, suíonn ceart, Droim íota le spéir, géaga le sráid, Súile leat. Ní iarrann. Fanann. Buacaire an chlóis taobh leat, ní haon rud mór Boiseog a shilt anuas air, braon ar bhraon. Amharc a dhroim, dathanna ag filleadh ar an chraiceann leis an bhaisteadh. Tógann sé a dhá lámh mar chosaint ar a shúile, Nó malaí agus fabhraí níor bronnadh air san ubh. Agus imigh leat, anois, do ghnósa déanta. Cead amhairc i gcionn leathuaire agat - ní bheidh sé ann. |
There’s a frog in the bucket. How long’s he been there? He is hardly alive. His throat is still, his eyes are hooded, His skin is wholly dry. He is withered spawn, His colour the yellow of the turf ash about him. He’s a sheep turd dried out by the turf, A camel lost in a galvanised desert. Upend the bucket. His innocence does not deserve a metal coffin Or shite-coloured cell walls. Look at him. He moves, sits upright, His parched back to the sky, his feet planted firm, His eye on yours. He does not ask. He waits. The outside water-tap is close. It’s nothing to you To drip a palmful, drop by drop, down on him. See his back, as rain returns the colours. He raises his hands to his eyes, complaining That no brows nor eyelashes came to him from the egg. You may go now, your part in this is finished. Check again in half an hour, and he’ll be gone. |
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Gréagóir Ó Dúill |
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| Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: |
Ronnie Hughes Donald Murray The Author The Author |
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