Song for Yvonne
River setting out without companion, too soon, at a bound,
Give the children of my country the face of your passion.
River where the lightning ends and my home begins,
That rolls the rubble of my reason down the frontiers of forgetfulness.
River, in you the earth quivers, the sun is uneasy,
Let every poor man harvest your bread in his night.
River often punished, often left alone.
River of the apprentices to our calloused condition,
There is no wind which does not bend to the crest of your wake.
River of the empty soul, of rags and of suspicion,
Of old misfortunes unwinding, of elm trees, of compassion.
River of the hare-brained, of the feverish, of flayers,
Of the sun leaving its plough to sink to the level of lies.
River of one’s betters, river of the clear fog,
Of the lamp which freezes the fear around its shade.
River of regard for dreams, river that rusts iron,
Where the stars keep the shadow they hold back from the sea.
River of powers yielded, of cries entering its watery mouth,
Of the hurricane that gnaws the grape and announces the new wine.
River with an indestructible heart in this mad prison-world,
Keep us violent and friends to the bees on the horizon.
[MR]