Harvesting Amors Poem by Michel Galiana

Neither stars, gods, princes nor imperious decree,
No hubbub, O strangers, may upset our silence.
For, who did shape their world with their own hands but we?
Time that assails our flesh must yield to its defence.
Shores? The ocean but leaks in its beads through the rock,
But frozen wind fills up our dark remote recess,
And if we scorn echoes with speeches to unlock,
Our voices water at the wells where quietly rest
Those first tones, those first shades of dawn that are the words
Made up of air, of sap, of poised or flying birds...

And yet, who would dare haunt these grottoes from where blood
Wells, roaring? The dawning day pours its songs in floods.
Rise up, O clear duchy, that's flagged with whirling waves!

Autumn to scintillate prepares amid the vine.
Purple grapes are summer's triumphing battalions,
Proud summer that conquered every star, every sign.
But space has exhausted its fiery stallions.
The sun of love did sire the seemingly dead stocks.
And although our hands were folded and our mouths locked,
Within wombs that a fond embrace had meant to seal
Seed of the nights managed to impregnate our dreams.
And regret in our blood shall stir without cease
Which our desires only, once admitted, appease.

Autumn tramples our peace underfoot and our grapes.
Harvesters, overthrow all these walls, for my sake!
Sweetheart came preceded by humming of a bee.
Growing darkness has blurred her outlines to me.
O faces tumble down! Vanish gardens or winds!
The fire must overcome, my entrenchments give in!
Blood sings!
O City, burn, overflown by vultures!

Dawn was awaking me at the top of the tower.


LES AMOURS VENDANGEURS

Les astres ni les dieux, les princes ni les lois,
Nul tumulte, étrangers, ne hantent nos silences.
N'avons nous façonné l'univers de nos doigts?
Le temps bat à nos chairs, respecte leurs défenses.
Berges? Mais l'océan perle au donjon des rocs.
Le vent emplit, figé, nos caves sans lumières,
Et si nous dédaignons des discours les échos,
Nos voix puisent aux puits où dorment les premières
Musiques, les premiers reflets d'aube, les mots
Qui sont d'air et de suc, équilibre, rameaux...

Pourtant, qui hanterait ces grottes où le sang
Gronde et sourd? Le matin déploie un flot de chants.
Emerge, clair duché, pavoisé d'ondes vives.

L'automne à rayonner s'apprête au coeur des vignes.
Les pourpres bataillons triomphent de l'été,
L'été hautain, vainqueur des astres et des signes.
Mais l'espace a raison de son immensité.
Le soleil de l'amour a fermenté les souches
Mais que fussent nos mains closes, closes nos bouches,
En nos ventres scellés par le même baiser
La semence des nuits a fécondé nos rêves.
Un regret dans nos corps s'agitera sans trêve
Tant que nos désirs sus n'auront pu l'apaiser.

L'automne a jeté bas notre paix et nos treilles.
Vendangeurs, jetez bas mes murs à votre tour!
Mon aimée a surgi d'une rumeur d'abeilles.
L'ombre du sol montant disloque ses contours.
O visages, croulez! Fondez, jardins ou brises!
Le feu doit triompher. Mes assises sont prises
Le sang chante!
Brûle cité, sur le vol uni des vautours!

L'aurore m'éveillait au sommet de la tour.