Tar amach, a mheata,
Is tar amach, na mairbh.
Can na hamhráin fhada
Le caoineadh mall is balbh.
Tar de suan sa scamaill
Gan streachailt, le do thoil.
Go luath, tagann fáfall
Nuair a scoiltear anam ón fuil.
Is muidne na héin is na harailt.
Is muidne na amhránaí trom.
Don bhrionglóid, agus don chéadáilt,
Canaimid briste is lom.
Tar amach, a mheata,
Is tar amach, na mairbh.
Níl aire ag oidhe d’ana.
Ní stadann an taoide le impí na scairbh.
A Little Bit about the Poem
This poem is one of a pair of efforts I made to compose a poem entirely in Irish. When it came time to address the afterlife in the fantasy setting I am working on, I decided banshees and dullahans would be my psychopomps. Shortly after, I felt that I should compose songs for the banshees to keen that corresponded to my own lore. This is one such song someone might hear before their death in the world of Rivaazlin.
In addition to the Gaelgeoirí I may have upset with any mistakes, I'm sure any mythologists reading are confused by the divergences from traditional banshee myths. Though this characterization of banshees is not quite as divorced from truth as the Americanized, aimless, screaming ghost, I have made some slight changes. Banshees in Rivaazlin take on the form of different birds depending on their family (of whom there are seven, naturally) and they were created by the Goddess of Deception.
Their creation may be detailed on the site in time, so keep an eye out if I've piqued your interest!
Translation
Come out, you sickly.
And come out, you dead.
Sing the long songs
With slow and inarticulate crying.
Come to the slumber in the clouds
Without a struggle, please.
Soon, an easing will come
When the soul is split from the blood.
We are the birds and the heralds.
We are the heavy singers.
For the dream and the first prank
We sing broken and bare.
Come out you sickly.
And come out, you dead.
Tragic fate does not care for wealth.
The tide does not stop at the begging of the beach.
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