Tá mé ag ullmhú le bheith i mo chrann
agus chan de bharr go bhfuil dia ar bith
mo sheilg gan trua, é sa tóir orm go teann,
mé ag ealú óna chaithréim spéire, mo chroí ag rith
ina sceith sceoine, roimh bhuaile a dhúile.

D’ aonghnó tiocfaidh claochló aoibhinn ar mo chló.
As mo cholainn daonna dhéanfar stoc darach.
Tiontóidh craiceann ina choirt chranrach; gan stró,
athróidh an sruth fola ina shú, an gheir ina smúsach:
fásaidh duilleoga ar mo ghéaga cnámhacha.

Cheana féin tá mo chuid ladhra ag síneadh,
ag géagú amach ina bhfréamhacha feitheogacha,
ag buanú sa chréafóg, ag taisceadh is ag teannadh.
Mothaím mé féin ag imeacht le craobhacha
nuair a shéideann bogleoithne fríd mo ghéaga.

Inniu chan ag análú atá mé ach ag siosarnach
agus mé mo sheasamh caol díreach gan bogadh;
éanacha na spéire ag ceiliúr ionam go haerach.
As an tsolas diamhair seo atá mo spreagadh
go dil, cruthóidh mé clóraifil; mo ghlasdán…

I am getting ready to become a tree,
not because some god is after me,
bearing down with his aerial authority,
my heart bolting from the thrust of his need.

My figure will be transfigured, in one go;
my human shell turned to the trunk of an oak,
my skin twisted to gnarled bark, my blood-flow
to sap. Out of my branch-bones leaves will grow.

Already, my fingers and toes are stretching out,
elongating into sinewy roots,
tucking themselves tightly into the ground;
and when a breeze blows my branches round,
I feel as if I’m going nuts, or out

of my tree. Today I stand tall and straight,
not breathing but rustling; birds congregate
in me, warbling airs while I create
chlorophyll, inspired by unfathomable light
to fulfil my destiny, synthesise my fate.