FINERY Poem by Yves Bonnefoy

It's snowing. Soul, did you expect
To have eternal birth?
See, you have there
Even a party dress for death.

Finery like in adolescence,
Of those that we take in anxious hands
As the fabric of it is transparent and remains near
Fingers that open it out in the light,
We know that it's as fragile as love.

But corollas and leaves are embroidered there,
And already the music can be heard
In the neighbouring room, where the lights are.
A mysterious ardour takes your hand.

You go, your heart pounding, into the big snow.