Yves Bonnefoy Poems
Comments about Yves Bonnefoy
Passer-By, These Are Words
Passer-by, these are words. But instead of reading
I want you to listen: to this frail
Voice like that of letters eaten by grass.
Lend an ear, hear first of all the happy bee
Foraging in our almost rubbed-out names.
It flits between two sprays of leaves,
Carrying the sound of branches that are real
To those that filigree the still unseen.
Then know an even fainter sound, and let it be
The endless murmuring of all our shades.
Their whisper rises from beneath the stones
To fuse into a single heat with that blind
The clouds were passing
At the far dark end of the room.
But just now the mirror is empty.
The untangling of the sky.