XVI PARIS
Saint Lazare, Opéra, hymne qui brûle et gronde,
Vos boulevards béants engloutissent Paris.
Neige, givre, décor magique, danses, rondes
Hurlantes, ouvrez-vous, portes du paradis!
La dame de mes jours habite un palais rose.
Des oiseaux de cristal mèneront à son seuil.
De lourds tapis me conduiront où repose
Celle dont si longtemps je célébrai le deuil.
Paris chante à sa vitre et l'enclôt de merveilles
Et on dirait un seul bouquet, arrondissant
Autour du lys d'argent les tulipes pareilles
Au cortège d'atour qui la reine défend.
Moi, je serai la main qui cueille le lys calme,
L'eau qui choit goutte à goutte, éveillant les senteurs,
Le vent qui l'assoupit, la tendresse des palmes,
L'âme qui le respire et l'arrose de pleurs.
Michel Galiana (c) 1991
XVI PARIS
Saint Lazare, Opera, flaming and roaring hymn,
Your gaping boulevards are engulfing Paris.
Snow, frost, magic background, you shake your dancing limbs
And scream. Open, you are Paradise's entries!
My lady-love dwells there in a rose-red palace.
And crystal birds warble on the way to her door.
And some thick carpets shall lead me towards the place
Where she lies; and I mourned so long for her before!
Paris sings at her pane, surrounds her with its charm.
It looks as though it were a large bunch of flowers
Where a silver lily stands among a thick swarm
Of tulips, like a queen amidst her followers.
And I shall be the hand that picks that calm lily,
The water that on it drops and its fragrance spreads,
The wind that lulls its leaves, the shielding canopy,
The soul charmed by its scent, which tears upon it sheds.
Transl. Christian Souchon 01.01.2005 (c) (r) All rights reserved
