Summer somnolence
Progresses. And time sleeps. An apple that perfumes
Of dozing orchards in willow baskets gathers.
The carpet is designed by the unspoiled summers.
You sing. On your forehead, playfully, shade and shine
Pass, and rhythm and peace their numbers intertwine.
Persephone, who knows of awe-inspiring woods,
Of terror of midday, of dismal sets of roots,
In your voice two rival realms compete and unite...
In silence my forehead bends, benumbed with night.
PERSEPHONE
Ton songe par la chambre où bourdonne une abeille
Avance. Le temps dort. Une pomme, aux corbeilles
Recueille les parfums du verger assoupi.
L'été, l'incorrompu, compose le tapis.
Tu chantes. Sur ton front jouent et passent les ombres.
Le rythme et le repos entrelacent leurs nombres.
Deux royaumes rivaux s'unissent en ta voix,
Perséphone, et tu sais, l'obsession des bois,
La terreur de midi, les racines funèbres.
Mon front sourdement ploie, alourdi de ténèbres.
Poetry by Michel Galiana
Read 1389 times
Written on 2008-05-30 at 09:50
Tags Galiana 
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Persephone
Your dream throughout the room where a honey bee humsProgresses. And time sleeps. An apple that perfumes
Of dozing orchards in willow baskets gathers.
The carpet is designed by the unspoiled summers.
You sing. On your forehead, playfully, shade and shine
Pass, and rhythm and peace their numbers intertwine.
Persephone, who knows of awe-inspiring woods,
Of terror of midday, of dismal sets of roots,
In your voice two rival realms compete and unite...
In silence my forehead bends, benumbed with night.
PERSEPHONE
Ton songe par la chambre où bourdonne une abeille
Avance. Le temps dort. Une pomme, aux corbeilles
Recueille les parfums du verger assoupi.
L'été, l'incorrompu, compose le tapis.
Tu chantes. Sur ton front jouent et passent les ombres.
Le rythme et le repos entrelacent leurs nombres.
Deux royaumes rivaux s'unissent en ta voix,
Perséphone, et tu sais, l'obsession des bois,
La terreur de midi, les racines funèbres.
Mon front sourdement ploie, alourdi de ténèbres.
Poetry by Michel Galiana
Read 1389 times
Written on 2008-05-30 at 09:50
Tags Galiana 
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Elle |
Texts |
by Michel Galiana Latest textsThe plea of darknessThough your voice The helmsman Miracle gardens Blazon |
Increase font
Decrease