[NPM] No, really...

[icewolf]

Iascaire is ea m’athair le ceart Conas ná raibh a fhios againn cheana agus diamhair na mara chomh glé sin ina shúil? Lá an adhlactha, iompraíonn sé doircheacht mhoch na maidine ar an trá sin a shíneann ó dhoras an tséipéil go dtí bruach an tsaoil. Siúlann thar an slua atá bailithe sa chlós, a chois báite sa ghaineamh gan cabhair a iarraidh ó éinne dá chlann mhór mhac. Ní thuigimid an fharraige fós, dar leis, a cneastacht ná a racht. Tá naomhóg an bhróin bun os cionn ar a ghualainn chomh dubh le fuil théachta, an fharraige ag fiuchadh le deora goirt a loiscfeadh súil na gréine. Scarann tonn na sochraide roimis is cuireann sé a dheartháir sa pholl atá tochailte aige féin is an ngealaigh ó aréir. Nuair a shiúlann ón uaigh ar ais, tá gile na dtonn is uaigneas an domhain i ngleic i súil ghlas mo shinsir.

My father is really a fisherman How did we not know already, when the deep mystery of the sea shines so brightly in his eyes? On the day of the burial, he carries the early morning dark on that beach that stretches from the church door to the edge of the world. Walks past the crowd that has gathered in the yard, his feet sunk in sand, asking no help from any of his many sons. We still don’t understand the sea, he says, its kindness or its anger. The naomhóg of sorrow is upside down on his shoulders, as black as clotted blood, the ocean boiling with salt tears that would burn the eye of the sun. The funeral-wave parts and he buries his brother in the hole he dug up with the moon the night before. When he walks back from the grave, the brightness of the sea and the loneliness of the world grapple in my father’s green eyes.

translated by Michael S. Begnal