(To Ruth, so young, from another age)
(It’s quite probable that this poem commemorates and addresses Bousono’s wife, Ruth, and as such the interest in the poem must underlie the intimate and/or private candidness of tone, rather than the less than pretentious art form. T. Wignesan)
This isn’t exactly wine that you and I drain to the last drop
with such slowness at this hour,
the neat truth. It’s not wine,
In any case, it’s not a question of an awaited
celebration, a noisy fiesta,
raised on gold.
It’s not a canticle of the mountains.
It’s only a whistling sound: flower, less than this:
whisper, lacking in weight.
And all this began some time back. We joined hands
very hurriedly to be able to remain by ourselves, alone,
both jointly and separately in order to walk on the never-
And in this manner, we move forward together on the
tenaciously. The same direction, the self-same golden instant
and despite it all, you walked without being in doubt,
always very far away, far behind, lost in the distance,
in the brightness, diminshed, yet wanting me,
in another station where flowers burgeoned,
in another time and in another pure space.
And from the secluded spot in the woods, from the sandy
of mature lateness, from where I contemplated
your eagerness to be ahead of time,
I saw you slow down, once and all over again,
without raising your head in your remote garden,
though being held back, obstinate-
and so unjustly!
pluck in joy
roses for me.
© T. Wignesan – Paris,2013