An Bus go Gaillimh: The Bus to Galway

Waiting in the rain for a bus that is in no hurry.

Tá mé ag fanacht leis an mbus.
I am waiting for the bus.

Tá sé ag cur báistí, ar ndóigh.
It is raining, of course.

Tá bean eile ag an stad liom.
There is another woman at the stop with me.

“Tá an bus déanach arís,” ar sise.
“The bus is late again,” she says.

“Bíonn sé déanach i gcónaí,” a deirim.
“It is always late,” I say.

Tagann an bus faoi dheireadh.
The bus comes at last.

Suím in aice na fuinneoige.
I sit beside the window.

Téann an bóthar siar trí na cnoic.
The road goes west through the hills.

Titeann mo shúile. Codlaím.
My eyes fall. I sleep.

Nuair a dhúisím, tá an fharraige ar mo chlé.
When I wake, the sea is on my left.

Tá áthas orm. Tá mé i nGaillimh.
I am glad. I am in Galway.

A note on this one

Irish puts a feeling <i>on</i> you rather than <i>in</i> you: <b>tá fearg orm</b>, anger is on me; <b>tá áthas orm</b>, gladness is on me. The same shape carries hunger, cold, fear and most of the rest.