An Banfhile sa Chillín

A' Bhana-bhàrd sa Chladh Bheag

The Woman Poet in the Cillín

Mar leanaí go Liombó tugadh                
Mo chúram go crích chlapsholais                
Áit a leathann an modardhorchadas,
Ar nós an eidhneáin, gan stad.
 
Taobh leis na coirp bheaga
Cuireadh babhlaí adhmaid
D’fhonn is go n-ólfaidís bainne na bó
A dháileann bean, go faíoch orthu.     
                
Níl de leacht ós a gcionn
Ach clocha glasa gan ainm,
Is clocha scáil leata                
Ina bpaidrín briste.
 
Má théann tú an treo,
Cuimhnigh ar mo mhiondaoine
Ach ar d’anam, ná bain leo
I gcill an dearmaid.
Mar chloinn sa Phurgadair, thugadh
Mo phàistean gu àit’ eadar-dà-sholas
Far an sgaoil an dorchadas
Gun sgur mar an eidheann.
 
Ri taobh nan corp beaga
Chàraichte bobhlaichean fiodha
Às an òladh iad bainne nam bò
A thaomas bean dhaibh.
 
Chan eil de chuimhneachan os an cionn
Ach clachan glasa gun ainm
Is èiteagan sgapte
Mar phaidirean briste.
 
Ma ghabhas tu an t-slighe sin,
Cuimhnich air an fheadhainn agamsa.
Air d’ anam, na cuir dragh orra
An reilig an dearmaid.
 
Like infants to Limbo, my charges
Were taken away to a twilight zone
Where murky darkness spreads
Continually, like ivy.
 
Beside the little bodies
Wooden bowls were laid
So they’d drink the milk
A woman pours out for them.
 
There’s no memorial overhead
Just a grey stone without a name
And scattered quartz pieces,
A broken rosary.
 
If you pass that way,
Remember my little ones
But for pity’s sake, don’t disturb them
In their forgotten resting place.