The Sorgue
song for Yvonne

River too soon gone, at one bound, without companion,

Give the children of my land the face of your passion.

River where the lightning ends and where begins my mansion,

That unto the steps of oblivion rolls the pebbles of my mansion.

River, in you earth’s palpitation, sun anxiety.

Out of your crop let make his bread by night each poor man.

River often punished, river quite abandoned.

River of the novice to the callous condition,

No wind unto your furrows’ crest but suffers suasion.

River of the voided soul, of rags and suspicion,

Of old annoy unraveling, of the elm, of compassion.

River of eccentrics, fever cases and knackers,

Of the sun letting go the plow to pal with the jawjacker.

River of their own betters, river of fogs full-blown,

Of the lamp that slakes the anguish around its chapeau.

River of regard for dream, river that makes steel rust,

Where starlight has that shadow it never to ocean entrusts.

River of forces transmitted and waters embouched by a cry,

Of hurricanes vinerending that proclaim new wine.

River of the undestroyed heart in this world mad with prison

Keep us violent and amical to the bees of the horizon.

René Char