Beochaoineadh Máthar Maoise A dhílleachta linbh gan ainm, gan athair, Do chraiceann ar aondath le humha an nathair, A lúbann timpeall do thaobhán uiríseal, Mar bhata ceannródaí is sníomhanna sisil. Is trua liom ciseán do dhóchas a fhíochán, Do dhán a chaitheamh i bpoll an duibheagáin, D’eiseadh a chruthú ar bhunús baill séire, ‘Nois tá tú chomh cotúil leis an gCailleach Bhéarra. A iníon, a mhiceo, a ógfhlaith bocht, A leanbh truaillithe, maith dom mo locht, Imigh anois leat, ná bí do mo chrá, Le smaointe ciúinchiontacha ó mhaidin go lá.   Ordóg Fhinn Ordóg Fhinn — The salmons skin Brushes the truth to his lip. The cardinal sin The space within — He dares to taste a sip. Blistering bliss The hero’s kiss Upon one fingertip. The bubble bursts, The burning thirst — Quenched.   Itch Not a fever-stirring, raging thing, The kind of sore that, left alone, won’t sting, But crueller still it tempts me to indulge To rake the wound and make the blisters bulge. It calls my nails to dig deep …