To my brother Slave, who died so young
Snowdrops are blooming down ancient pathways,
Modest as the sky and tender as the dawn,
Two enchanting blue tits pour out their full-throated song
Upon the fragile whiteness of their Vedic petals!
My soul, I love this playful hour, its sweet virginity,
The quintessence of things, the signs of eternity!
Snowdrops bloom every year on the little grave of my brother. My mother placed them there. Eighty years have passed. But the soul of a child comes to greet us every spring to tell us that it is always living close by.
Translated from the French of Athanase Vantchev de Thracyby Norton Hodges