Bleunioω balan

FLOWERS OF BROOM

 

When the broom is at its peak

Friends came...

Surprised at so much gold

They gathered bouquets

Filled up their carts

Said to the heath "See you again

Next year!"

………………………………

 

The broom remembered: sensitive hearts

---Here we are in flower!

They said to me on Sunday,

When will your friend the poet come?

When will the two girls come

With their tinkling voices

With their light footsteps

Who danced in our midst

To the music of the crickets?

And the one you called in the recess of your heart

The Knight of Brittany. When will he come?

--- Oh! soon, my pretty flowers

On Sunday I'll be waiting for them.

………………………………

 

A vain wait, no one came

One is sick, one is tired

Others don't really care

And the flowers grown tired of waiting must be told

They've changed their color.

Their heads are bent down

A shiver runs all along the heath

(Perhaps it was only a breeze?)

Yet all together

Quickly and gently

They cried...

Golden tears.

 

November 1965.