Noz derc'hent gouel Yann

THE NIGHT BEFORE ST. JOHN'S DAY

 

The shortest night of the year.

The night of the longest day

Ten o'clock! Night doesn't fall

Every form is crystal-clear and well-defined in the distance.

The sky has a palor so semi-mourning:

Stifling blue, thin, unfeeling, wordless,

The color of mystery, the color of nostalgia,

The solor of memories...

 

The brightness of the moon. Full.

The stars not yet visible.

The night has a pensive look.

A nostalgic look, a sad thought perhaps

About customs fallen by the Wayside.

The brightness and happiness preceding

The nights before St. John's Day

In the fields of Brittany and in the small bourgs.

Red flames are rising in every hamlet.

The smell of smoke in the night air.

The piercing shouts of children

Who have climbed atop the hedges

Around the hills

Counting the bonfires

One after another.

 

This night alone, above the ground

A quiet bonfire, a cold bonfire:

The bright moon,

In her fullness

Shining on the heath

The night before St.-John's Day.

 

March 1965.