For six thousand years,
The rain fell down from the filthy sky,
For six thousand years,
Men toiled, grew old, fell consumed and died,
Tá súil agam go heiróimid,
Níos eirimiula tar éis an seanghalar seo,
Táim i mo phairt don pleann den tír, den domhan,
And this plan would be without flaw, but-

You see, you see,
This land weren’t built for you and me,
The sky, the trees,
Down from the summit to the sea.

And we walked from cliff to cliff,
Watched the waves fall, the sun slip,
We looked upon the constellations,
Carved in sky by the hand of the mason,
And we hunted for design,
Some artefact beyond the passage of time.

We searched for faces in the rocks,
Some kind of pattern we might recognize,
We supped the brackish and skipped smoothest stones,
The rain descended from the filthy skies,
Our hope, our faith fell cold and fallow,
Our feet resting in pools, thick, shallow.

For six thousand years,
Ben Bulben sat beneath this rain,
For six thousand years,
Ben Bulben watched generations slain,
Ta súil agam go bhfuil duine éigin eile,
Ag féachaint ar Ben Bulben féin,
For if not there is no enveloping purpose,
To all of our toil and senseless pain.

You see, you see,
This land weren’t built for you and me,
The sky, the trees,
Down from the summit to the sea.

Ben Bulben, don’t smile upon me,
Ben Bulben, ag féachaint orainn inár luí,
Ben Bulben, coated with gorse,
Ben Bulben has no remorse.

For six thousand million years,
Ben Bulben watched us all alone,
For six thousand million years,
Ben Bulben watched us shatter upon smoothest stone,
Ta súil agam... níos eirimúila tar éis an seanghalar úafásach seo,
And there’s no one ever to reward us,
For our toil and senseless pain, and…

I know that there is no “we”,
Upon Ben Bulben’s impartial plains,
I am alone: there is only me,
And so I shall start again.