On the stream of the Battle at Kerlouan
There is an oak tree at the top of the moor
Upon an oak tree the moon rests
Each night to draw to itself seabirds
Seabirds, black and white of feather
With a drop of blood on their heads
With them a black she-crow, greyed and old
Together with a young crow in concert
Tired they are and wet their wings
They came from far across the sea
And the birds sing a song
More beautiful is my silence than the wide sea
And the birds sing a song
More beautiful is my silence than the wide sea
The wide sea