Korydwen et le rouge de Kenholl [English translation]

Korydwen, oh Korydwen, you pagan little girl

crowned with golden1 wheat,

why had you to go to the clear spring in the rowan wood

on the first day of May of your fifteenth year?

Appeared, coming from Vannes, three men, three riders

on their way to the pardon of Sainte Anne,

to the cross of Sainte Anne standing atop a rock near Nantes.

As they went, Korydwen could hear the bells tone.

The first rider, crowned in jewels, riding a horse

as white as Carrara marble in the summer,

said, "I shall lead you to Sainte Anne, ye pretty pagan maiden.

Come and jump into my saddle". Yet before he could finish

his skin unravelled to ribbons on his shrivelled body

as he suddenly turned into a stone chimera

and both his arms fell to dust,

as to dust fell both his feet,

and his grey ashen remains

clouded the water of the spring.

By plunging his sword into the stream,

the second rider cleared the water of the spring,

and freshened it right away.

The head of a tortoise adorned his steel helmet,

its scales covered his waxed cuirass.

"Who are you?" said Korydwen.

- Bathalan the warrior! I am the son of the wave,

and was bred by the ocean.

- But the ocean breeds nothing but mermaids and sorcerers.

I'll never follow you to the pardon of Sainte Anne!

Korydwen poured clear water from the fresh spring

into the mouth of the third rider2 and said,

"You are young and your eyes are scattered with jade.

which land are you coming from on your crimson mare?"

In the land I come from, seven windmills turn

in the salty winds that dye my beard pink,

as pink as a rose from the bush.

I go by the name of The Red in Kenholl, where I was born,

and I come here to lead you to the pardon of Sainte Anne!

And so they both jumped onto the crimson mare,

while the bells from the belfry near Nantes

relentlessly tolled,

and rode ceaselessly for three nights and two days,

without drinking nor eating, over hills and through vales.

Comes third evening and Korydwen wonders,

- I can hardly make out the toll of the bells now

- don't you worry, says The Red, the wind must have turned.

Come, pagan lass, and lay on my bed of hay...

And off they go in the morning, riding the wild mare,

crossing forests strewn with stags' antlers

and greener than algae and the fields of Ireland,

without drinking nor eating,

for three days and two nights without a rest.

Yet, comes sixth evening and Korydwen wonders,

- I no longer hear the bells of the pardon toll!

- you're mistaken, Korydwen, my beloved.

The wind must have dropped. It's late, let's go to sleep.

Korydwen wakes up at the seventh dawn3.

She lies alone on the bed of hay.

Where The Red was, she finds by her side

some snakes and a broken mirror.

Korydwen peers at the mirror, seeking her eyes,

but the face she discovers startles her,

it is the face of an old woman, that must be a hundred

and ten years old, whose pathetic torn breasts

are being devoured by the snakes.

And so does Korydwen watch her thin blood flow

and be drunk by the earth as her death closes.

And out of her cold belly a sparrowhawk takes flight

and dives into the Loire, turning into an enchanted salmon.

1. "épis" can both mean "ear" (of wheat) and "cowlick", it's a classic metaphor for blond hair.2. that is one piece of convoluted French!3. "dew"