Ar barzh paour

THE POOR POET

 

I was born in a thatched house

Amid fair and peaceful fields

In the prettiest valley in all Tregor

Through which calmly runs the Leger

The long of the wind in the high trees

In my cradle it rocked me.

 

I was born during the spring

When the cuckoo starts to sing

When the swallows are returning

Nests all around as well as singing.

The best music that I have heard

The longs and warbling of the birds!

 

I was born at the time of blossoms

When every hedge sports a garden

Golden trumpets in the meadows

Hedges full of hawthorn flowers

The first smile that I ever formed

Was at a silv'ry sunflower.

 

I was born in the morning

When the sun strikes Mill Hill

When the shepherd sings in the meadow

When the finch sings in the woods

When the lark rises in the air

To sing its hymn to Peter.

 

When I have to leave this World

Perhaps it will be one Springtime

Perhaps it will be inside my thatched house

In the fair and peaceful fields of Brittany

When the Sun sets behind the roses (<Pa guzho 'n Heol a-dreńv ar roz)

And when the nightingale warbles.

 

 

Look in the meadow of golden trumpets

To make a bouquet for a poor poet

Look in the hedge of hawthorn flowers

To fashion for me a crown

And in the ivy above my grave

The nightingale will sing in the evening.

 

March 1964.