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Res que me manque, res.
Lo temps de naisser, de morir, lo temps de me virar. Lo temps de res.
D’esser quela chalor. Queu sang. Quela bufada.
Lo temps d’esser ieu-mesme — Res.
'Na polsada de l’esser.
♦ L'Òrt jos la luna
Onte se'n van, quilhs que se'n van?
Lo paubre auseu, lo chen, la femna —
E tu qui parlas tant, onte aniràs?
Mas se'n van pas!
Demoran qui, que bujan pas, remuedan pas, ni pè ni sòla.
E lo temps que se'n vai —
Lo temps qu'a pas besonh de ilhs —
Lo temps qu'espera pas —
Lo temps se'n vai d’aicí a deman mai tòrna pas virar.
E tu parier lai entraràs, per la broa tranquilla dau chamin.
E tu segur lai entraràs, dins lo silenci priond de l'eternela eternitat.
♦ La Broa dau chamin
Me desvelhe.
Es be jorn.
Coma un qui se desvelha
E qui la nuech n’a pas barrat sos uelhs,
Ai be trauchat l’ivern sens veire nuech ni nèvia
E sens sentir lo vent.
Me desvelhe.
Veiquí.
De flors mai de fuelhas se’s perfumada l’auba,
E la prima chanta lo vent.
M’a fach durmir ni nuech ni nèvia,
E lo mes mòrt me ten lo sang:
Que me son las fuelhas mai las flors!
E lo vent de prima ni lo solelh de l’auba.
Las peiras daus chamins que lo giau las trabalha,
E la terra daus puegs,
Sentan dins las priondors lo levam de la grana
E las dents de las raiç.
Mas ieu, que me desvelha?
E sabe-ieu qu’es jorn!
E sabe-ieu si l’auba raia, e que me vòl l’amor!
♦ La Prima
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There is nothing I lack, nothing.
The time to be born, to die, the time to turn around. The time for nothing.
To be that heat. That blood. That breathing.
The time to be myself — Nothing.
The breath of being.
♦ The Garden Under the Moon
Where do they go, those who leave?
The poor bird, the dog, the woman —
And you who speaks so much, where will you go?
They're not leaving at all!
They remain here, not moving, not stirring, neither foot nor sole.
And the time that elapses —
The time that doesn't need them —
The time that doesn't wait —
The time that leaves from here to the morrow and then never comes back.
And you too will walk in there, along the quiet path.
And you sure will walk in there, in the deep silence of eternal eternity.
♦ Along the Path
I'm waking up.
It's well into the day.
Like one who's waking up
And whose eyes the night hasn't shut,
I've been living through the winter without seeing night nor snow,
Without feeling the wind.
I'm waking up.
That's it.
With flowers and leaves the morning has perfumed itself,
And springtime sings of the wind.
Neither night nor snow have made me sleep,
And the dead month is freezing my blood:
What are flowers and leaves to me!
Or the springtime wind or even the morning sun.
The pebbles on the path that frost is working on,
And the earth of the hills,
Feel deep inside the leaven of the seed
And the teeth of the roots.
But me, what is waking me?
Do I even know it's day yet!
Do I even know if the morning's shining, and what loves wants from me!
♦ The Springtime
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