mercredi 27 juin 2012


Confiteor Tibi Domine
For Michel-Richard Delalande


O God, there will be no peace
Until intimate prayers for the dead have been spoken!
Until the invocations that gushed from my soul, O God,
Have entered into the hearts of flowers
And penetrated down to the secret of their warm roots,

Until, O God, my tears have watered
The nests of their beloved names built beneath the syllables of the wind,
Where in the spaces that separate them
Grow trees
Of a fascinating beauty!

O prayers all
Of dew!


O God, there will be no peace
Until my heart has prostrated itself
Upon the moss-covered flagstones of my own kind!


Come, sweet shadows,
Undress fresh water,
Place the bouquets of my nostalgias
Upon its sleeping breast.

My love, become spring
So that in the tracks of the lives of the dead
There will spring up the white satin of snowdrops
And the golden silk of primroses.

Breeze, make the sweet dew flow
From the calyxes of the hawthorn onto the locks of the nasturtiums.


May your words, O God,
Marble the whole valley where my ancestors sleep!

I know
That an invisible thread unites all lives,
That words, lighter than the wings of dragonflies,
Revolve around the silent columns of souls
Beneath the gentle rain that is the fruit of the years!

Note: Written while listening to the marvellous music of Delalane

Translated from the French of Athanase Vantchev de Thracy 26/27.06.12 by Norton Hodges

Aucun commentaire: