to Ivona Martin

In the mill of time I have ground
The shreds of my youth
All the scraps of my beauty,
The remnants of my dreams.
Caprices, reveries.
And pain and sadness.
I’ve steeped them all
In sweat and tears
And baked the dough
In my heart’s hot fire.
Made sheets of them,
That I’ll iron to give a high sheen
With the iron of my ardor.
And on them, I will write,
In the colors of my thoughts, Wild fantasies
Of my second childhood,
In the magical language of my race.

August 1963.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton

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