TO THE SILVER DISK

All Poets on Earth throughout the centuries.
Have sung your praises. O Moon
Impatient lamp in the starry vault
The night’s beauty in the light of your solitude,
You, who puts movement in the sea,
life in seed and art in tree-boughs.
Every storyteller creates lovely scenes
Because of you.
Every dreamer builds castles
On your perimeter.
Every child calls you: “The silver disk.”
You must not be angry
With those who trampled
The purity of your Mystery,
For the Bard will still sing you In every key,

For eternity…

July 1969.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton





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