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gofraidh fionn odalagih
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A pregnant girl, under sorrow's sign,
Condemned to a cell of pain,
Bore, by leave of Creation's Lord,
Her small child in prison.
Swiftly the young lad flourished,
Eager as a bardic novice,
For those first years in prison,
Clear as if we were looking on.
Who would not be moved, alas,
As he darts playful little runs
Within the limits of his walls
While his mother falls into sadness!
For all daylight brought to them --
O sharp plight -- was a the glimpse
A single augurhole might yield
Of the bright backbone of a field.
Seeing one day on her pale face
A shining tear, the child cried:
'Unfold to me your sorrow
Since I follow its trace.
Does there exist another world
Brighter than where we are:
A home lovelier than this
Source of your heavy weariness?"
"Seeing the narrow track we tread
Between the living and the dead
It would be small wonder if I
Were not sad, heedless boy.
But had you shared my life
Before joining this dark tribe
Then on the tener hobbyhorse
Of your soul, sorrow would ride.
The flame of the wide world
Warmed my days at first;
To be closed in a dark cell
Afterwards: that's the curse."
Realising this life's distress
Beyond all balm or sweetness,
The boy's brow did not darken
Before his cold and lonely prison.
This image -- this poem's dungeon:
Of those closed in a stern prison
These two stand for the host of the living,
Their sentence, life imprisonment.
Against the gaiety of God's son,
Whose kingdom holds eternal sway
Sad every dungeon where earth's hosts
Lie hidden from the light of day.
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050701
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