X-1 HESPERIDES Ce n'est pas le pays des automnes. Les fleurs Figent en écrins stricts les parfums, les passages. Une tempête bat et meurt où plantent leurs Assises les surgeons nourris de sèves sages. Mais savez-vous le poids qui double vos essors, Reflets d'un plus profond dont vous vous dîtes frère? Bosquets creux, hébergez la nuit qui germe en ors! Je connaîtrai le mot à ma tige contraire. Sous un lisse combat atteindre le rubis Et savoir que nos jours bombent leurs écrouelles! Tourbillons, rejetez la chair et ses habits. Abîmes, vos parfums! Firmaments, vos rouelles! Michel Galiana (c) 1990

X-1 HESPERIDES This is not the abode of Autumn. Here the flowers Capture the blowing winds, the scents into tight shrines. A storm rises and dies where shoots, soaked with wise Saps have taken their stands near the blooming bowers. But do you know which weight on your soaring presses, Which reflects a deeper one to which you're akin? Shelter the night that sprouts gold shoots, hollow copses! And I shall know which word against my stem may sin. In smooth strife to dig forth the sparkling ruby stone, To know that one's numbered days boast of their scars! Whirlwinds, throw off the flesh! Carnal attire, begone! Abyss, cast off your scents! Heavens, your shameful stars! Transl. Christian Souchon 01.01.2004 (c) (r) All rights reserved