Poem
Simon Ó Faoláin
The Pheasant’s Freedom
You are mocked atAnd shot at:
Fool-of-many-colours,
Condemned jester.
Fattened on yellow meal
And lies,
Not kenning conspiracy
Until they level
The four walls
Of your safe-house
And you are driven out
Into a world without end.
*
In the fog of confusion
You trip out before cars.
But your lover is no fool,
Hunkered down in the ditch
In her suit of speckled dun
While you prance
Over meadows
In your silk pyjamas.
You call out blithely
From the undergrowth,
Broadcasting your presence
To all:
“Kokok!”
“Come and Kill!”
© Translation: 2012, Simon Ó Faoláin
Saoirse an Phiasúin
Saoirse an Phiasúin
Séidtear fút is caitearpiléir leat:
Amadán ildaite,
crósán daortha.
Ramhraithe ar mhin bhuí
Agus éithigh,
Ní thuigir comhchealg
Go leagtar
ceithre thaobh
Do chlós sábhálta,
Go tiomántar amach tú
I ndomhan gan teorann.
*
I gceobhrán do mhearathail
Tuislír amach os comhair cairte,
Ach ní óinseach do ghrá geal
Suite sa díg ina culaith ghlic
Uidhir agus bhreac
Fad is a phramsálann tú
Thar na bánta
Id’ phitseamaí síoda.
Glaonn tú ón luifearnach
go hard saonta,
Ag fógairt do láithreach
Do chách:
“Kokok!”
“Tagaíg is maraíg!
© 2012, Simon Ó Faoláin
Poems
Poems of Simon Ó Faoláin
Close
The Pheasant’s Freedom
You are mocked atAnd shot at:
Fool-of-many-colours,
Condemned jester.
Fattened on yellow meal
And lies,
Not kenning conspiracy
Until they level
The four walls
Of your safe-house
And you are driven out
Into a world without end.
*
In the fog of confusion
You trip out before cars.
But your lover is no fool,
Hunkered down in the ditch
In her suit of speckled dun
While you prance
Over meadows
In your silk pyjamas.
You call out blithely
From the undergrowth,
Broadcasting your presence
To all:
“Kokok!”
“Come and Kill!”
© 2012, Simon Ó Faoláin
The Pheasant’s Freedom
You are mocked atAnd shot at:
Fool-of-many-colours,
Condemned jester.
Fattened on yellow meal
And lies,
Not kenning conspiracy
Until they level
The four walls
Of your safe-house
And you are driven out
Into a world without end.
*
In the fog of confusion
You trip out before cars.
But your lover is no fool,
Hunkered down in the ditch
In her suit of speckled dun
While you prance
Over meadows
In your silk pyjamas.
You call out blithely
From the undergrowth,
Broadcasting your presence
To all:
“Kokok!”
“Come and Kill!”
© 2012, Simon Ó Faoláin
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