An Mhuscladh (amhras)

Rinne mé áras

I do ghruaig chasta dhubh

Le samhlaíocht lag mo dhúil,

Áras fínéalta bréige

Gur chónaí mé ann,

I soineantas aibí mo dhaille.

Gan súil ag m’intinn

Tharr bhallaí na n-aislinge,

Cailltear mé

I nduibheagán chasta do ghruaig.

As luaith na h-aislinge dóite,

Fásann úr-ghas ghlas an dóchais.

The Awakening

I made asylum

in your twisted black hair

with the feeble fancy of my intent,

a delicate false asylum,

so that I lived there

in the ripe innocence of my pretence.

With my mind without an eye

over the walls of my dreams,

I lose myself

in the black depths of your hair.

From the ashes of burned dreams

grow the new green sprouts of hope.