The house where I was born (04) Poem by Yves Bonnefoy
The house where I was born (04)
Another time.
It was still night. Water slid
Silently on the black ground,
And I knew that my only task would be
To remember, and I laughed,
I bent down, I took from the mud
A pile of branches and leaves,
I lifted up the whole dripping mass
In arms I held close to my heart.
What to do with this wood where
The sound of color rose from so much absence,
It hardly mattered, I went in haste, looking for
At least some kind of shed, beneath the load
Of branches that were full of
Rough edges, stabbing pains, points, cries.
And voices that cast shadows on the road,
Or called to me, and, my heart beating fast,
I turned around to face the empty road.
... Que faire de ce bois où de tant d’absence Montait pourtant le bruit de la couleur, Peu importe, j’allais en hâte, à la recherche D’au moins quelque hangar, sous cette charge De branches qui avaient de toute part Des angles, des élancements, des pointes, des cris. Et des voix, qui jetaient des ombres sur la route, Ou m’appelaient, et je me retournais, Le cœur précipité, sur la route vide.
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4/24/2024 10:57:33 AM # 1.0.0.1119
LA MAISON NATALE, IV Une autre fois. Il faisait nuit encore. De l’eau glissait Silencieusement sur le sol noir, Et je savais que je n’aurais pour tâche Que de me souvenir, et je riais, Je me penchais, je prenais dans la boue Une brassée de branches et de feuilles, J’en soulevais la masse, qui ruisselait Dans mes bras resserrés contre mon cœur, ...