WHAT IS IT?

I go from room to room
around the house
looking for something,
and, to be honest, I won’t know
what it is
till I find it.

It’s not the bread tin,
nor the coarse brown flour,
nor the fine white flour,
though I take them out
and measure them on the scales
and bake a single loaf.

It’s not any book I was devouring,
if memory serves me correctly,
that I put down absent mindedly,
although I stand at the shelves
and scan the book stacks
and fall to my knees.

It’s not any missing key.
I wasn’t going out.
I didn’t leave anything on, although
I’m shuffling from room to room
scouring the whole house for something
and it’s nothing
and I’m scouring quiet sorrow.

Cad é

Cad é

Táim ó sheomra go seomra
ar fud an tí
ag lorg rud éigin,
is nach mbeidh fhios agam
cad é nó
go bhfaighidh mé é.

Ní hé an stán aráin é
an plúr garbh donn
ná an plúr mín bán,
cé go dtógaim amach iad
is go gcuirim sa mheá iad
is go ndeinim builín amháin.

Ní haon leabhar a bhíos a léamh é
más buan mo chuimhne
is a leagas uaim,
cé go seasaím ag na seilfeanna
is go bhféachaim tríothu
is go dtéim ar mo ghlúine ar an urlár.

Ní haon eochair a bhí uaim í
ní rabhas ag dul amach
níor fhágas aon ní ar siúl,
cé go bhfuilim ó sheomra go seomra
ar fud an tí
ag lorg rud éigin
is nach faic é
is go bhfuilim ag déanamh bróin chiúin.