MY LITTLE HOUSE

A half-century ago
It was being built,
My beloved little house.

My father had dug out the stones
By the holeful, by the hookful,
From his land,
To clear his fields,
The yellowish quarry-stone,
And the building-stone of blue gravel.
And when there was enough,
Artisans were brought in,
I remember
I was still very small,
But I remember.

Two windows and a door
That looked to the South.
A blue roof with green eyes.
Between the two chimneys,
A large hearth and a small one,
Spewing grey clouds or blue smoke
Toward the sky.

Propped against the old house,
There was the domain of Kubele,
My old mare the color of peach-blossoms.
There are two walls between us,
Between my room and hers.
And she awakened me every morning
With pawing of hooves on the floor.
Was she hungry?
Or eager to see me?
Or both things?
–Perhaps!…

February 1963.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton





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