Hirnez

MELANCHOLY

 

I am gathering ferns

ξle nicest of jobs, you might say...

True, but it's hot,

Let's stop for a moment.

 

……………………………….

 

On my arm a sickle and a pitchfork,

in my hand a fern

fine and light like a piece of lace

on the edge of the field I sit down

In the shade of the chestnut tree.

 

……………………………….

 

A sharp perfume, a dizzying perfume

the ferns turning

while tickling my nostrils

have gone to my head.

And here I am beginning to daydream,

my mind wandering

down the path of memories;

where before me passes

as on a brilliant screen

my bygone youth.

 

And I think of the past

that will never return!

The autumn of my life,

Ah, golden-brown fern,

symbol of arid and poor soil,

such a fate is ours!

Sterile. Unimportant. Meaningless.

I would at least wish to be like you,

also able to produce a perfume:

a sharp, dizzying perfume

of pure poetry.

 

January 1964