Taibhríodh dom in aois coinlíochta
i mo leaba chúng sa tsuanlios aíochta
go rabhas i halla mór ag rince
i measc slua mór de mo dhaoine muinteartha,
le prionsa dubh.
Timpeall is timpeall do ghaibh an válsa,
bhí míobhán ar mo cheann le háthas,
ba mhear é a shúil, bhí a fhéachaint fíochmhar,
bhí bua gach clis i lúth is in aicillíocht
ag an bprionsa dubh.
Ach do plabadh oscailte an doras sa tsuanlios,
do chling soithí níocháin, do lasadh soilse,
bhí bean rialta ramhar ag fógairt ‘Moladh le hÍosa’
is do shuíos síos i lár an tsúsa is do ghoileas
i ndiaidh mo phrionsa dhuibh.
A dhreach, a mharc ní dhearmhadfad choíche,
a scáth ard baolach a bhíodh liom sínte,
mo bhuachaill caol in éag do mhill mé,
mo rí, m’impire, mo thiarna,
mo phrionsa dubh.
Is do m’iníon taibhríodh in aois a naoi di
gur oscail doirse in óstán draíochta
is duine éagsúil ag gach seomra acu á hiarraidh
is mar a dual máthar di (a chonách orm a thóg í) roghnaíonn
is toghann an prionsa dubh.
Is a iníon bháin, tóg toise cruinn dó,
ní maith an earra é, níl sé iontaofa,
is dúnmharfóir é, is máistir pionsa,
is sár-rinceoir é, ach cá ngabhann an rince
ach trí thinte ifrinn leis an bprionsa dubh.
Cuirfear faoi ghlas tú i gcás gloine iata,
nó faoi mar a bheadh doras rothlánach ina mbeifeá greamaithe
gan cead isteach nó amach agat ach an suathadh síoraí
soir agus siar tré phóirsí an tsíce
má ligeann tú a cheann leis an bprionsa dubh.
Nó beir mar a bhíos-sa i néaróis sínte
ceithre bliana déag, is mé spíonta le pianta
faoi mar a thitfinn i dtobar ar chuma Ophelia
gan neach beo i mo ghaobhar, ná éinne a thuigfeadh
toisc gur thugas ró-ghean do mo phrionsa dubh.
Nó gur shiúlas amach ar an nduimhche oíche duibhré
is dar an Mháthair Mhór is dar déithe mo mhuintire
a bhraitheas i mo thimpeall, do thugas móid agus briathar
go dtabharfainn suas an ní ab ansa liom ach mé a shaoradh ón bpian seo –
cén cás ach dob é sin mo phrionsa dubh.
Mar dob é an bás é, ina lúi i luíochán
in íochtar m’anama, ins an bpaibhiliún
is íochtaraí i mo chroí, de shíor ar tí
mé a ídiú gan mhoill is a shá ins an duibheagán
mar sin é an saghas é, an prionsa dubh.
Mar sin, a mhaoineach, dein an ní a deir do chroí leat,
toisc gur gabhas-sa-tríd seo leis ná bíodh aon ró-imní ort.
Ní sháróidh an bás sinn, ach ní shaorfaidh choíche,
ní lú ná mar a aontóidh an saol seo le chéile
sinne, agus ár bprionsa dubh.
At puberty I had a dream
in my all-too-single bunk in the school dorm,
of dancing the length of a public room
with the guts of my relatives looking on
in the arms of an ebony Adonis.
Round and round whirled the waltz
till my senses spun with joy
from the fiery, fierce glance of his eye.
Every achievement in fitness and sport
possessed my ebony Adonis.
Then the dormitory door caved in with a bang,
lights snapped on and wash-basins rang,
a well-fed sister was singing the praises of Christ,
and myself left amidst the bedclothes bereft
of my ebony Adonis.
His face and his touch I will never forget,
that high-powered shadow that with me slept,
that expert lover that spoiled me for dead,
my sovereign, imperial, absolute passion,
my ebony Adonis.
My daughter, in her turn, dreamed aged nine
of a door that led to a spellbound inn
where various chancers were coaxing her in
and, like mother like daughter, you’d know she was mine,
nothing would do her but the ebony Adonis.
Now, light of my soul, make no bones about it,
a no-good son-of-a-bitch can’t be trusted,
with his murder record and black belt too,
this Lord of the Dance is headed where to?
Straight through the fires of hell, with the ebony Adonis.
You’ll end up closed in an exhibition case,
under lock and key, or caught as it were in a revolving doorway,
unable either to get in or get out for the swish
back and forth, night and day, through the porches of the psyche
if you give an inch to the ebony Adonis.
You’ll be laid low as I was in a type of ME
at the dregs of a well like a sort of Ophelia,
tortured with symptoms for fourteen years
without a creature to speak to or a sympathetic ear
since I handed my cards to the ebony Adonis.
Till I walked out over the golf links to the moonless tide
and summoned up the Goddess and the spirits of my tribe
to gather around me, and I swore my solemn promise
to surrender what I loved most to exorcise the sickness –
all very well for a joke, except this was my ebony Adonis.
Who was all along Sir Death, lurking in ambush
in my womb’s valleys, in the summer-house
and lowlands of my heart, forever alert
to decoy me into his desert, to destroy me in short,
being the ebony Adonis sort.
Still, my honeychild, since I’ve been there and done it,
you do your own thing and don’t give a shit,
for Old Death will not get us, though he’ll not let us go,
any more than this life will condone us
one kiss from our ebony Adonis.