IX LA MAISON DU MATIN

La maison du matin qu'en treilles de lumière
La vigne enguirlandait et les fruits lourds et chauds,
Dont les parfums berçaient les guêpes familières
Comme aux flots léthéens l'âme ivre de repos.

La maison du matin au sourd manteau sonore,
Le loquet immobile et les volets baissés,
En son coeur d'ombre et de calme laissait éclore
Le silence aux parfums plus doux que des baisers.

Mais un jour est venu frapper la visiteuse,
Jusqu'alors inconnue et messagère dont 
Les doigts versèrent sur le toit la foi pieuse
Et firent se lever le sévère pardon.

Aux murs on vit grandir et croître comme un lierre
La treille de velours lamé d'argent au bord.
La maison du matin attend dans la lumière,
La maison du repos, la maison de la mort.

Michel Galiana (c) 1991

IX HOUSE IN THE MORNING 

House in the morning hour which, entangling the sun,
A vine clad in garlands. Heavy, warm fruit on it
Gave off scents that lulled the familiar wasps' hum
As did once Lethe's waves the rest-drunken spirit.

House in the morning hour wrapped in dull coats of sound,
Whose closed doors and shutters did visitors dismiss,
In your heart full of shade and quietness I had found
Silence whose fragrance was as soft as a fond kiss.

Until a woman came and she knocked at the door.
She was to all unknown. She was a messenger 
Who spread pious fervour over the roof and floor,
Promising forgiveness, a harmful harbinger.

Vine started covering the walls, ivy alike,
Which soon in silver-edged velvet leaves would be dressed.
The house in the morning was turning in the light
Into a house of death, of everlasting rest.