TO MY PENCIL

You probably thought you’d been abandoned,
Like something rejected,
That no longer pleases…
You stayed in your dark corner.
The spider, out of pity,
Had woven a bed for you,
For resting,
And for dreaming.

With joy I found you again,
You little thing!
I’m happy to caress you
With my sluggish fingers,
You who remained so prudent
In your dark corner
For a whole week…

October 1967.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton





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