V LA PORTE Nous étions loin du port et ramions en silence. Des cris nous parvenaient escortés de senteurs Et les échos hissaient comme aux pointes de lances Des regrets de jardins, des cloches, des rumeurs. La colombe vaincue avait fui solitaire. Le dernier albatros avait crié trois fois Et, le col droit, filé où se meurt la lumière. Seul un aigle berçait son ombre sur nos doigts. Puis l'espace à présent recueillait nos cadences, Escortait notre envol de son rauque tambour. Nos coeurs reconnaissaient une étrange espérance. Nous ramions entre un flot sonore et le ciel sourd. Alors, s'illuminant de reflets glauques d'onde Qui dans le jour massif enfonçaient des remous, Flambant de ses portails, de sa voûte profonde, Antre, gueule, tombeau, la porte fut sur nous. Son ombre en nous prenant avait glacé nos lèvres. Nos rames avaient chu qui sombrèrent d'un bloc. On eut dit qu'un esprit issu de lourdes fièvres Enguirlandait d'oubli nos têtes comme un roc. La nuit et sa clarté baignaient nos somnolences. Nos yeux désenchantés ouverts aux visions Percevaient le feu noir rouant un poing de lances, Ecartelant notre cécité de rayons. Ce ne fut qu'un instant. Coula sur nos paupières, - Et pour l'oeil aveuglé ne vibra qu'un seul cri - Goutte à goutte sur nous perla le froid des pierres Et le remous brisé dans sa poigne nous prit. Avons-nous conjuré le supplice et la fête? Musiques, exilés de vos rites, vos lois, Nous avons reconnu la cadence parfaite, Le seuil enseveli que seuls passent les rois. Sauvage effarouchée et qu'un respect offense, Une perle de sang m'a ravi mon enfance. D'avoir franchi la grotte et bravé la défense Les vogueurs épuisés connurent leur aloi. Il y a si longtemps que j'ai franchi la porte Que sept fois renaquit le vaisseau qui m'emporte Et j'ai pour seul témoin que ce ne fut erreur Le souvenir qui dort aux paumes du barreur. J'écoute dans le port les oiseaux qui me content Mon enfance. Leurs chants d'outre-rêve remontent Mais je ne comprends plus les mots trop longtemps tus, Aveugle à la lueur dont ils sont revêtus. Les mots dont je me sers sont charmes que j'incante. Ils tressent un rideau fait de feuilles d'acanthe Et les voix désormais ne me parviennent plus Qui n'ont vaincu la grotte et franchi le reflux. Michel Galiana (c) 1991

V THE GATE We were far from the port and we rowed in silence. Distant cries still were heard, escorted by perfumes And echoes hoisted, like to the tip of a lance, Sad memories of parks, of bells, of muffled tunes. Vanquished, the turtledove had taken lonely flight And the last albatross given its threefold shout And fled with upright neck yonder where dies the light. Only the shade of an eagle roved still about. Now void space gathered our rhythmic exertions And escorted our flight with its hoarse tambourine. Our hearts acknowledged a strange expectation. Deaf skies and resounding ocean. We inbetween. Now, violently lit by green water shimmer Which into blank daylight drove glittering eddies, Showing off its portals and its vaulted glimmer, A den, a gulf, a tomb, the Gate engulfed us. Its shade took us and put on our lips a cover. Our oars at the same time were sunk and weighted down. It was as if some ghost begotten by fever Had garlanded our heads and turned them to numb stone. Our drowsiness was bathed in night radiances. Our disillusioned eyes had perceived a vision: They saw a dark fire spread a fan of lances, Crucifying them with their blind scintillation. It lasted a short while. On our eyelids poured down - Our blinded eyes had caused only a cry to surge - Drop by drop, down our spine, the icy cold of stone And the broken eddy with which we had to merge. Did we recover from this painful enjoyment? To comply with your rites and laws being at a loss, All these sounds in our ears were perfect achievement, Past the buried threshold that only kings may cross. Shy, timid, by respect easily offended, A mere bead of blood has robbed me of my childhood. The gate was sailed across and the ban was challenged By exhausted rowers whose value thus was proved. It was so long ago when I crossed this gate. Seven times the ship that carries me went to sea. And I show as a proof that it was no mistake The scar on the palms of the cox I claim to be. I listen in the port to the birds that recount My childhood. Their chants rise from far beyond my dream. But I don't understand the words, hushed up too long, And, a blind man alike, I don't perceive their gleam. The words I make use of are like spells which I cast. They weave a blinding screen made of acanthus leaves So that now the voices over to me don't pass Which the cave and eddies prevent me to perceive. Transl. Christian Souchon 01.01.2004 (c) (r) All rights reserved