Challenging the gradual vanishing of material tokens of bygone times, the poet, as a reverse goddess of fate, weaves a web to catch the memories of the past.

Translated from the French

Weaver of Fate

Neither call nor silence nor sleep have a threshold
Whereon your walk ceases and becomes flight or fall.
The song of a child is so faint and seems to rise
From the source of your pride.
Path is shine, not passage.
And if ever you drink from the Fountain of Age,
A voice shall sing to you your song, secret and low,
But its mouth shall be one of night and of sorrow.

As a steady weaver, I fetter, thread by thread,
The vibrating star which the watcher will desert.
Legend on the alert, do I serve gloomy grudge?
I'll expose to the view of the summoning judge
The frayed void in witness of my triumphant work.


L'appel, le silence où le sommeil n'ont de seuil
Et tu ne trouveras où cesse le pas
Ni vol, ni chute. Le chant d'un enfant si bas,
Qu'il semble sourdre de la source de ton orgueil.
Les sentiers sont des lueurs, non des passages.
Si tu bois à la fontaine de l'âge,
Une voix te dira ta chanson secrète,
Mais la bouche sera de nuit, de deuil.

Tisseuse têtue - et fil à fil s'immobilise
L'astre qui vibre et que déserte le guetteur.
Suis-je légende tapie ou plainte grise?
Je montrerai quand m'assignera le juge
Ce vide frangé où triomphe mon labeur.

Poetry by Michel Galiana
Read 1380 times
Written on 2007-11-08 at 14:18

Tags Galiana  Time  Poetry 

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