I was nothing more that day than two legs walking.
My vision drained, a zero at the center of my face,
I took to following the stream that ran through the valley.
Low-lying, that dreary hermit had kept well clear
Of the formlessness into which I kept on pushing on.
From the cornerstone of a ruin formed once by fire,
Two wild rose-shrubs filled with great tenderness and determination emerged,
Plunging abruptly down into the gray water.
You could somehow sense the bustle of the departed, on the point of coming forward once more.
The harsh vermilions of a rose as it struck the water
In a rapture of questions restored the sky to its original aspect,
Rousing the earth to a chorus of loving tongues
And like a famished, feverish tool urging me on into the future.
At the next turning, the Epte woods began.
There would be no need to cross them, though, my beloved seed-sowers of recovery!
Half-turning, I breathed the damp must of the meadows where a beast was merging;
I heard the slither of the fearful grass-snake;
I did then—do not treat me harshly—what everyone, I knew, was hoping would be done.
[MH]