 |
| Os atores Lloyd Cooney, Eric O'Brien, Bairdre Ní Aodha e Laura Murray, num prédio residencial em Henrietta Street, no centro da cidade de Dublin, em show interativo para marcar o Lockout de 1913. Fotografia: Leon Farrell / Photocall Irlanda |
Setembro, 1913
W. B. Yeats
Do que precisam vocês, neste momento,
Senão guardar seu dinheiro rançoso
Com meio centavo extra em cada cento
E orar seus salmos de canto penoso,
Até secar os ossos da alma já drenada?
Aos homens que nasceram para o canto da salvação:
A Irlanda romântica está morta e enterrada,
Juntou-se a O'Leary em seu caixão.
No entanto, alguns foram diferentes,
Respeitados por muitas gerações,
Nomes que passaram pelo mundo num repente,
E com pouco tempo para demonstrarem suas ações,
Sucumbiram estes homens, e a forca lhes foi armada,
Santo Deus, quais seriam suas propostas de salvação?
A Irlanda romântica está morta e enterrada,
Juntou-se a O'Leary em seu caixão.
Foi para isso que os Gansos Selvagens
Espalharam sua mensagem pelos céus;
E todo aquele sangue derramado nas paragens
Para isso que Edward Fitzgerald morreu
Também Robert Emmet, Wolfe Tone... por nada
E toda aquela delirante valentia no coração?
A Irlanda romântica está morta e enterrada,
Juntou-se a O'Leary em seu caixão.
Poderíamos, ainda assim, recuar no tempo,
E convocar de volta aqueles exilados
Esquecidos em plena sua solidão e lamento,
Você choraria "Certas mulheres de cabelos cacheados
tem deixados mães e filhos preocupados":
E tudo o que fizeram pareceu em vão
Deixem-os, estão mortos e enterrados,
Se juntaram a O'Leary em seu caixão.
September 1913
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the half pence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the half pence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.