There Are Days
There are days when, full of sadness,
You rise in the morning,
Open the window and catch
In your languid hands
The stony silence of the day.
Your heart, torn by the fury of the years,
Is eager for warmth, passionate words,
For a vast number of small things
Which are the intangible treasure,
The meaning and the proper fulfilment of life.
The air, so noisome at certain hours,
Dancing so joyfully in the soul of the white anemones,
Where are they, the harmonics of clear thoughts,
The delicate counterpoints of friendship
Which link the tireless movements of the world?
What became of the sweet memory
Of a limpid ruby red dress
With cerise reflections,
Revealing through its grace the innermost serenity
Of words and poems?
I draw the curtains,
Go back to my table overrun with books,
Open ‘Bushido, The Soul Of Japan’,
And plunge into the splendours
Translated from the French of Athanase Vantchev de Thracy by Norton Hodges