“Il fut un temps d’attente dans le froid sel d’un été”
There
was a pause in the cold salt of summer
Silence
was these piles of sands destroyed
or
multiplied by light and wind
One
day ashes
to
history’s call and the dead
One
day solar beds under the heft of
noon
strong
vessels
confidantes
of solitude
One
day roses of breasts and knees
quiet
flesh under the caress of sea mist
One
day whiter even than Saturn’s ring
for
the exhilarating purity of the sea
for
the nights of lightning and moons
for
the seagulls
white
for the perfect representation of silence
white
between the forms and flora of the sea.
“Il existe pourtant des pommes et des oranges”
Despite
it all, there are still apples and oranges
Cézanne
holding with a single hand
all
the fruitful fullness of the earth
the
beautiful vigor of the fruit
I
do not know all their names by heart
nor
the generous warmth of the fruit on white fabric
But
the hospitals will have no end
The
factories will have no end
Long
lines in the frost will have no end
Beaches
turned into swamps will have no end
I
have known those who have suffered, struggling to breathe
whose
dying will have no end
listening
to the song of a violin or of a crow
or
of maple trees in April
No
end to reaching the rivers in themselves
which
flow by carrying ice floes of light,
the
remnants of seasons they have so many dreams
But
the barricades the vestibules will have
no end
The
tortures the cancers will have no
end
the
men who toil in the mines
with
the struggles of their people
who
are shot to death anyway raging with
fury
will
have no end
their
dreams of the color orange
Some
women will have no end of their sewing of men
and
the men will have no end of pouring themselves another drink
Yet
despite the many wrinkles of the world
despite
the many exiles
the
many wounds
in
the blindless of stones
I
still capture the sound of waves
the
peace of oranges
Cézanne
sweetly claims from the suffering of the earth
of his creation
and
all the vibrant summer comes to wake me
comes
sweetly madly to bequeath me
these fruits
“C’est une nuit blanche des statues”
It’s a sleepless night of statues
Our
bodies are stuck like trees
in
the terror of frost.
We
survey the ruins of the city
the
contempt and the rushed footsteps of pedestrians
separating
us from pleasure
separating
us from knowing who we are
We
are the beautiful sculptures
the
anonymous reliefs of the frigid death-masks of concrete and
of marble.
