XI-4 FORET

Lorsque tu pénètreras dans ma forêt,
Oh mon hôte, ni sentier, ni source. L'heure
Assourdie sous les forêts. Une plainte
D'oiseau mort dont l'écho toujours hanterait

Les troncs luisants, comme luisent, au secret
De tes rêves, les eaux où le temps demeure.
Silence. Car te voici hantise, crainte,
Ensevelissement - attente - et n'aurait

Ta bouche un souffle si n'eût parlé ma bouche,
Et tout ton corps devient ma braise, ma couche,
En cette forêt dont le nom est ailleurs.

Repose. Ma voix est promesse, lumière.
L'éclair luit. Je te dirai l'aube première,
La naissance. Voici le temps du veilleur.

Michel Galiana (c) 1990

XI-4 FOREST

If ever you enter once into my wood,
O my guest, you'll find there no path and no source.
And under the coppice the hour, muffled, sounds.
The moan of a dead bird, stubbornly echoed,

Would haunt gleaming trunks, as gleam, under the shroud
Of your dreams, the waters where times still abide.
Be quiet. Why have you now an obsessive fright?
You seem to be buried - in waiting - and would

Not have breathed a word, if my mouth had kept quiet.
Your body turns into my ember, my night
In this forest whose name has remained unknown.

Sleep now. For my voice is a promise, a moon.
A flash of bright lightning. I'll wake you as soon
As dawn gleams. The watchman's time for me has come.