We line up, the old people,
On the side of the road,
And watch the caravans
Of young people pass by.
What good is speed to us?
We’re no longer following fashion,
We can no longer follow their cars
–Or their ideas.
Go then, hotheads, faster,
Always faster.
You are awaited.
Waiting for you are
The jolt, the detour,
The mad driver,
The whirlwind,
And Death.
Go then fast, faster.
We, the old people,
Will give you our place!

January 1968.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton

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