WB Yeats: The Valley of the Black Pig

WB Yeats: The Valley of the Black Pig

A translation from 2013.


Lenkie limba I rosse, olori okómar; rihtie rúkar
ehti usinwe ara hendunyat i olor  ekkuiva,
Tá i talante roquénion yalme ta i fírala
usinwe ohtarion nairi ara hlarunyat palpar.
Emme i mólamme se i ambal or i ráva,
i mista hahta or i ambon, íre rossea núta 'n aure,
Ambaro aranínen yerna, elyen kawimme,
Élion quildéva Héru ar i fenno uruina.

THE dews drop slowly and dreams gather; unknown spears

Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes,

And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries

Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.

We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,

The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,

Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you,

Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.