by Yves Bonnefoy

Notre vie, ces chemins
Qui nous appellent
Dans la fraîcheur des prés
Où de l’eau brille.

Nous en voyons errer
Au faîte des arbres
Comme cherche le rêve, dans nos sommeils,
Son aute terre.

Ils vont, leurs mains sont pleines
D’une poussière d’or,
Ils entrouvrent leurs mains
Et la nuit tombe.


Our life, these paths
That call us
In the coolness of meadows
Where water shines.

Some of them go roaming
On the crowns of trees,
Just as in our sleep, a dream
Will seek its other earth.

They wander, hands full
Of golden dust.
They spread their fingers,
And night falls.

from "The Curved Planks"

a quick hit of John Plant's vocal setting!


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