XVII LE VOYEUR

La forêt quand toute rumeur la déserte.
Le regard quand l'emplissent les visions.
La maison vide et ses fenêtres ouvertes.
Des corps d'amants quand s'éteind la passion.

La ville lorsque retentissent les bottes.
Le désert blafard sous la lune qui luit.
Le canal noir hanté de chants en ribote.
La plainte à l'hôtel, derrière un mur, la nuit.

Le grand midi sur la place où l'août brasille.
La cloche qui s'ébranle dans le sommeil.
Le tesson au bord de la route qui brille.
Les faubourgs poussiéreux et toujours pareils.

La douleur furtive qui rôde, qui racle
Et qui s'installe, plantant son dard têtu -
Voyeur de ce qui te fut un spectacle,
Portes closes où tu as longtemps battu.

Michel Galiana (c) 1991

XVII PEEPING TOM

The forest which every rumour has deserted,
The glance which becomes saturated with vision.
The house left empty with all its windows open.
Bodies of lovers after assuaged passion.

The town where marching boots on cobblestones resound.
The wan desert under the pallid moon that shines.
The dark canal haunted by the carousers' song.
The moan in the hotel, behind the wall, at night.

The square at high noon when hot August scintillates.
The bell that starts to ring when you are fast asleep.
The piece of broken glass shimmering on the road side.
The suburbs that dusty ugliness always keep.

The pain that stealthily roams about and that gnaws
Taking up position, planting its stubborn sting-
Peeping Tom, all that has been for you but a show,
Closed doors at which you have been so long knocking.