Snowdrops
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
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