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Is lá dubh é seo,
Tá an spéir dubh.
Tá an fharraige dubh.
Tá na gáirdíní dubh.
Tá na crainn dubh.
Tá na cnoic dubh.
Tá na busanna dubh.
Tá na carranna a thugann na páistí ar scoil ar maidin dubh.
Tá na siopaí dubh.
Tá a bhfuinneoga dubh.
Tá na sráideanna dubh (is ní le daoine é).
Tá na nuachtáin a dhíolann an cailín dubh
go bhfuil an folt láidir dubh uirthi
dubh dubh dubh.
Tá an damh dubh.
Tá na gadhair dubh.
Tá capall úd Uíbh Ráthaigh dubh.
Tá gach corr-éan a scinneann amach as an ealta dubh.
An chaoire dhubh a sheasann amach de ghnáth i lár an tréada
ní heisceacht í níos mó mar tá na caoirigh ar fad dubh.
Tá na prátaí dubh.
Tá na turnapaí dubh.
Tá gach bileog cabáiste a chuirfeá síos i dtóin corcáin dubh.
Tá na Caitlicigh dubh.
Tá na Protastúnaigh dubh.
Tá na Seirbigh is na Cróátaigh dubh.
Tá gach uile chine a shiúlann ar dhromchla na cruinne
an mhaidin dhubh seo samhraidh dubh. (Continued)
Tá na poiliticeoirí ar sciobaidh
is iad ag baint an gcos is na n-eireaball dá chéile
ag iarraidh a chur ina luí orainn
nach fada go mbeidh gach dubh ina gheal.
Is an té a leomhfadh a mhisneach dó
nó a chredifeadh an méid a deireann siad
níor mhiste dó b’fhéidir an cheist a chur
ab ann ab amhlaidh a chiallaíonn sé seo anois
nach mbeidh ins gach dubhthréimhse ach seal?
Ach ní dhéanfadsa
Mar táimse dubh.
Tá mo chroí dubh
is m’intinn dubh.
Tá m’amharc ar feadh raon mo radhairce dubh.
Tá an dubh istigh is amuigh agam díbh.
Mar gach píosa guail nó sméar nó airne,
gach deamhan nó diabhal nó daradaol,
gach cleite fiaigh mhara nó íochtar bonn bróige
gach uaimh nó cabha nó poll tóine
gach duibheagán doimhin a shlogann ár ndóchas
táim dubh dubh dubh.
Mar tá Srebenice, cathair an airgid,
‘Argentaría’ na Laidine,
bán.
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A black day this,
The sky is black.
The sea is black.
The gardens are black.
The trees are black
The hills are black.
The buses are black.
The cars bringing the kids to school are black.
The shops are black.
Their windows are black.
The streets are black (and I don’t mean with people).
The newspapers sold by the dark girl with the great head of dark hair
Are black, black, black.
The ox is black.
The hound is black.
The very horse from Iveragh is black.
The bird suddenly out of sync with the flock is black.
The black sheep that stood out from the ordinary run of sheep no longer
stands out,
For all the sheep are black.
The spuds are black.
The turnips are black.
Every last leaf of cabbage in the pot is black.
The saucepan is black.
The kettle is black.
The bottom of every pot from here to the crack of doom is black.
The Catholics are black.
The Protestants are black.
The Serbs and the Croatians are black.
Every tribe on the face of the earth this blackest of black mornings black.
The politicians are scuffling about
biting the legs off each other
trying to persuade us
to look on the bright side.
Anyone who might be inclined
to take them at their word
would do well, maybe, to ask
why they think it goes without saying
that every cloud has a silver lining.
I myself won’t be the one.
For I’m black.
My heart is black and my mind is black.
Everything that falls into my field of vision is black.
I’m full of black rage.
There’s a black mark against all your names.
Like each and every lump of coal, every blackberry and sloe
Every grave and cave and arsehole,
Every bottomless pit in which we lose all hope,
I’m black as black can be.
Now that Srebenica, that silver city –
‘Argentaria’, as the Romans called it –
is blank.
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