autumn misery…

autumn misery

(the master sings to margarita)

“…Tu mourras quand l’ouragan soufflera dans les roserais…”

-Guillaume Apollinaire

is not this the bench where we never sat

the place you did not give your hart to mine

the undiscovered moment of glory

a vendage lacking sun not excessive rain

are not these trees faerie skeletons that

standing do not recall singing sublime

applause leaving some tragic love story

a vendage lacking much laughter but not pain

do not these leaves not unleaving combat

the longing to not recall that divine

compassion ends as it begins lonely

a vendage not lacking misery nor  chains

is not this the pathless path our love mist

a vendage lacking dreams in which two harts kist

mark emmanuel christopher valentine

(© 04 november 2012)

Automne malade.

Automne malade et adoré
Tu mourras quand l’ouragan soufflera dans les roserais
Quand il aura neigé
Dans les vergers

Pauvre automne
Meure en blancheur et en richesse
De neige et en fruits mûrs
Au fond du ciel
Des éperviers planent
Sur les nixes nicettes au cheveux verts et naines
Qui n’ont jamais aimé

Aux lisières lointaines
Les cerfs ont bramé

Et que j’aime  Ô saison et que j’aime tes rumeurs
Les fruits tombant sans qu’ont  les cueille
Le vent et la forêt qui pleurent
Toutes leurs larmes en automne feuille à feuille
Les feuilles
Qu’on foule
Un train
Qui roule
La vie

Guillaume Apollinaire, 1913.

autumn illness

autumn illness and love lost

you die when the hurricane blows through the reeds

when it will have snowed

in the orchards

impoverished autumn

die amidst the whiteness and the richness

of the snow and in the ripe fruit

at the bottom of the sky

the hawks hover

over the water nymphs with green hair and the dwarves

whom they never loved

on the distant ridges

the harts have horns

and those i love o season and also i love your whispers

the fruits falling without anyone to gather them

the wind and forest weeping

all their tears amidst autumn’s leaves upon leaves

the leaves

as a crowd

in a train

that runs

so our lives

fade into emptiness

Guillaume Apollinaire, 1913.

(translated mecv 04 november 2012)

This entry was posted in Poetry, The Path of the Sacred Warrior. Bookmark the permalink.

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