It's the heart which is hurting,
I think, Mario,
It's simply the heart
But of a so infinitely
tiny sorrow that a violin
wouldn't be able, even at the thinest
of its register, to appease it.
Mario, barely in the distance,
the rainy days, a smoke.
Like the invisible drawing
of a bird's flight in the limpid air
A sorrow but everything is calm
None of those sharp pains.
Blood. And none of those masses
in the sky threatening with clouds
Like a destruction. It's the heart.
Simply pinned, Mario,
The heart nailed like an image
On a water coloured life
On a decor with dead colors
Or like a poster, Mario,
Dried up on a door
And of which a scrap moves under the light air.
The heart that says of a so timid
way that it can not
go further in this life
destined nevertheless to the high seas.
And yet the universe inflexible
Creaks under the horn and is taking
care of us, like the implacable eye of the people.
Am I so old? I who talked
to this weather like a prophet
To the religion good and cheerful
Every battle was feast to me.
I am as if a bailiff
carrying high the candelabra
In full daylight, in my own heart,
among the dunes was taking me away.
Where I sink with every step
Losing my breath under the mask.
Unless it's my heart,
my old Mario, there, this small boat
Burried in the sand tide
And with a grass sweet to the feet
is covered and held by the lifeless
line of the poplar trees.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Jacques Bertin - Mario
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