Aṁrán an tSeanċaí
Saoṫar Ealaíne / Artwork — ChatGPT, 2026.
I mbun na tine tráṫnóna ciúin,
Ḃíoḋ glór na scéalta linn mar ḋraíoċt;
Ní raiḃ sa dorċadas aċ solas súl,
Ag éisteaċt leis an seanċaí críonna.
Ḃíoḋ ríṫe ann agus laoċra láidre,
Mná sí agus draoiṫe faoin ġcnoc;
D'oscail a ḃéal geataí an aisling,
'S d'imig an saol crua ṫar ár n-olc.
Beside the fire on quiet evenings,
The voice of story worked its spell;
No light but eyes and glowing embers,
Listening where the old man dwelt.
There were kings and heroes marching,
Fairy women beneath the hill;
He opened wide the gates of dreaming,
And daily cares grew strangely still.
Ó, a ṡeanċaí, fan linn fós,
I ḃfuaim do ġuṫa tá ár ndóċas;
Sular tháinig boscaí geala,
Ḃí an doṁan i do ḋá láṁa.
Ó, a ṡeanċaí, glór na gaoiṫe,
Glór na n-aiṫreaċa roṁainn;
Ṫug tú aisling isteaċ sa teaċ,
Agus ṫug tú sinn amaċ asainn.
Oh storyteller, stay beside us,
In your voice our hopes were found;
Before the glowing boxes came,
You held the whole world in your hands.
Oh storyteller, voice of ages,
Voice of those who came before;
You brought the dream into the cottage,
And led us past the everyday door.
Ḃíoḋ gáire ag preabaḋ i do ṡúile,
Mar ealaín ḃeo ar gaċ focal;
Do láṁa ag tógáil caisleán ceo,
Do ṁéara ag tarraingt bóiṫre fada.
Ḃíoḋ na páistí ina dtost glan,
Na seandaoine ag cromaḋ isteaċ;
Ḃí gaċ croí mar aon ċroí aṁáin,
Ag imeaċt leat ṫar teorainn an lae.
Laughter danced behind your bright eyes,
Waiting always to break free;
Your hands built castles out of moonlight,
Your fingers traced forgotten seas.
The children sat in perfect silence,
The elders leaned a little near;
Many hearts became one heartbeat,
Travelling where your voice would steer.
Anois cloistear guṫanna eile,
Ó ṡreanga agus ó scáileáin ġlasa;
Aċ ní ḃíonn anam sa ṁeaisín,
Mar ḃí i gcroí an tseanċaí.
Mar tá teas i nguṫ an duine,
Níl le fáil i gcré ná i gcruaċ;
Agus fad a inseofar scéalta,
Mairfiḋ do ríoċt linn go buan.
Now other voices fill the evenings,
From wires and screens that brightly glow;
Yet no machine has ever carried
The living heart we used to know.
For warmth resides in human voices,
Not in steel nor polished glass;
And while a tale is told among us,
Your kingdom never truly passes.
Ó, a ṡeanċaí, codail séiṁ,
Tá do rian fós ar ár mbealaċ;
Mar a ṁair an tine faoin luaiṫ,
Maireann do scéalta inár gcroí.
Oh storyteller, rest in gentleness,
Your footprints still guide where we roam;
As fire survives beneath the ashes,
Your stories burn within our homes.
— 24 Meiṫeaṁ 2026 / 24 June 2026
[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song:]
URL MP3 / MP3 URL: tinyurl.com/song-shannachie
ON COMPOSITION. Knowing from the start this would be a hybrid piece, trying to fit together verses in two languages — well, I am nowhere near the level of James Joyce — I must either fail or accept imperfection. The Irish Gaelic has internal headrhymes (alliteration) where I could manage it, the English has footrhymes or sometimes forced rhymes (“free” almost-rhymed by “seas”) to get a match not verbatim (else that last would have been “roads”!) but close enough for story purposes. This sort of compromise only hurt on the very last line, when the Irish was gladly exact in saying the stories live within our hearts — while the English rhymes had no way to get close to that, but at least could say “within our homes.”
❫~•~❧ Choinniġ mé na snaiḋmeanna sa aḋmad. / I left the knots in the wood.
No comments:
Post a Comment