THE FIRE REKINDLING

…The grandmother dozed off
Trembling with the cold
The embers half-dead in the hearth,
Covered with a dust-blanket of damp ashes,
Children entered,
Whose children?
It doesn’t matter. Children are always nosy parkers!
They noticed the bellows: a strange violin!
And with maladroit gestures
They made it flare up…
When the smoke rose to the mantle of the chimney.
The coals grew red.
Soon star-like sparks exploded.

The fire’s spirit awoke
With the breath of the bellows
And… the laughter of the children…

Festival of Gratitude to St. Mary.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton





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