Fortune Teller
Out of sheer desperation
I went to the fortune teller
and begged her to tell me when the war would end.
Her lips curled.
What did that mean?
I felt my own lips beginning to curl as well, unwittingly.
She looked me straight in the eye.
Maybe she doesn’t know, I said to myself.
Can she transpose herself
to the war cabinets of the world,
a fly on the wall?
Say something, for God’s sake!
‘How can it end, my dear Gabriel!’ she said, eventually.
(I hadn’t given her my name).
‘Every war contains the seed of the next war.’
Bean Feasa
I dtánaiste an anama a bhíos
nuair a thugas cuairt ar an mbean feasa
is mé ag impí uirthi a rá liom cathain a thiocfadh deireadh leis an gcogadh.
Chuir sí strainc uirthi féin.
Cad a chiallaigh sé sin?
Bhraitheas go raibh strainc orm féin leis, gan fhios dom féin.
Chuir sí a dhá súil tríom.
B’fhéidir nach bhfuil a fhios aici, arsa mise liom féin.
An bhfuil sí in ann í féin a aistriú
chuig comh-aireachtaí cogaidh an domhain,
ina cuil ar an mballa?
Abair rud éigin, as ucht Dé!
‘Conas a thiocfadh deireadh leis, a Ghabriel dhil!’ ar sise i ndeireadh na dála.
(Ní raibh m’ainm tugtha agam di).
‘Le gach cogadh a throidtear, cuirtear síol an chéad chogaidh eile.’
