Strip. Despoil our Country
Sweep away the sacred oaks of the Druids
The birches of the Celts and the yew-trees
—And the chestnuts of our youth—
In which our birds sang.
Start fires in the moor
In the heath. In the broom waving
Like seas of golden water
And write on the bare back
Of the old Country, in every foreign language
Poems of mourning
Ugly poems.
With their stiff letters
Rigid as their steel faces:
Long rows of lead soldiers
Tedious songs of their resin trees
With strange names!
And soon … If we don’t pay attention
On the great organ
Of their dark and sad forests
—Fertilized with the ashes of our trees—
The Atlantic Wind
Will play while singing
…The Requiem of our Country.

November 1967.

Translated by Lenora Timm

This poem in breton

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