THRESHING DAY PEOPLE’S POETRY

On the ground

—Pitchforks, brooms scattered around
Noise and clamor and intoxicated men
The pile of straw is on the verge of falling
Two or three ladders help support it!

In the courtyard

In flapping his wings
The rooster sings on a distant pile
With wings beating hens come running
All astonished at such a meal…

In the loft

The harvest is quick this year
The piles are heavy: shared work
The staircases are full of reddish wheat
Was the sack tufted by the grain-man?

In the house

The two tables are full of men
Hard work for the cooks
The big dog Anton, the little dog Paol
Are gnawing bones under the table.

On the road

—“Kerdrubuilh” has been taken care of anyway!
The men sing while going down the road
A dirty dust on their straw hats
Yellow balls in their reddish hair.

At the doorway

People have left, the noise stilled
It’s for us to scald the dirty trenchers
Washing work, drying work
Ordering work, sweeping work.

Humming

The harvest is over, the threshing is over
Tomorrow is the Sunday for relaxing…

September 1964

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton





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