To this blank page where my verses will appear,
may a memory sometimes bring your heart back!
The page of your life too is still blank;
I would like to fill it with one word: Happiness.
The book of life is the supreme book,
which you cannot close nor reopen where you want,
where the fatal page turns by itself;
the touching passage can be read only once:
you would like to stop on the page you love,
and the page where you die is already under your fingers.
--Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869)
Vers écrits sur l'album d'une jeune dame
Sur cette page blanche où mes vers vont éclore,
qu'un souvenir parfois ramène votre coeur!
De votre vie aussi la page est blanche encore;
je voudrais la remplir d'un seul mot: le Bonheur.
Le livre de la vie est un livre suprême,
que l'on ne peut fermer ni rouvrir à son choix,
Où le feuillet fatal se tourne de lui-même;
le passage attachant ne s'y lit qu'une fois:
on voudrait s'arrêter à la page où on l'aime,
et la page où l'on meurt est déjà sous les doigts.
What sweet thoughts, what hearts, O my Silvia!
How human life and fate seemed to us then!
When I remember so much hope,
a bitter and disconsolate
mood oppresses me
and I turn to grieving over my bad luck.
O Nature, O Nature,
why do you never give
what you promised back then?
Why do you so deceive your children?
Before the grass withered in winter,
you died, O tender one,
attacked and conquered by a secret illness.
And you did not see
the flower of your years;
the sweet praise of your black hair
or of your shy, loving looks
never softened your heart;
nor did you talk with your girl friends of love
at the festivals.
And not long ago my own sweet hope died:
to me also fate has denied youth. Oh how,
how did you pass,
dear companion of my fresh years,
my lamented hope!
What world is this?
These delights, love, art, events
that we talked of so much together?
What is the fate of humankind?
When the truth appeared, you fell,
miserable: and with your hand
you showed me in the distance
cold death and a bare tomb.
--Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837) wrote this poem in
1828 after a young woman he loved died of tuberculosis. He himself
suffered from illness and pain most of his life.
...
Che pensieri soave, che cori, O Silvia mia!
Quale allor ci apparia
la vita umana e il fato!
Quando sovviemmi di cotanta speme,
un affetto mi preme
acerbo e sconsolato,
e tornami a doler di mia sventura.
O natura, o natura,
perchè non rendi poi
quel che prometti allor? perchè di tanto
inganni i figli tuoi?
Tu pria che l'erbe inaridisse il verno,
da chiuso morbo combattuta e vinta,
perivi, o tenerella. E non vedevi
il fior degli anni tuoi;
non ti molceva il core
la dolce lode or delle negre chiome,
or degli sguardi innamorati e schivi;
nè teco le compagne ai dì festivi
ragionavan d'amore.
Anche peria fra poco
la speranza mia dolce: agli anni miei
anche negaro i fati
la giovanezza. Ahi com,
come passata sei,
cara compagna dell' età mia nova,
mia lacrimata speme!
Questo è quel mondo? questi
i diletti, l'amor, l'opre, gli eventi
onde cotanto ragionammo insieme?
Questa la sorte delle umane genti?
All' apparir del vero
tu, misera, cadesti: e con la mano
la fredda morte ed una tomba ignuda
mostravi di lontano.
Remember Barbara
It was raining nonstop in Brest that day
and you walked smiling
artless delighted dripping wet
in the rain
Remember Barbara
It was raining nonstop in Brest
and I saw you on rue de Siam
You were smiling
and I smiled too
Remember Barbara
You whom I did not know
You who did not know me
Remember
Remember that day all the same
Don't forget
A man was sheltering under a porch
and he called your name
Barbara
and you ran toward him in the rain
Dripping water delighted artless
and you threw yourself in his arms
Remember that Barbara
and don't be angry if I talk to you
I talk to all those I love
even if I've seen them only once
I talk to all those who love
even if I don't know them
Remember Barbara
Don't forget
that wise happy rain
on your happy face
in that happy town
That rain on the sea
on the arsenal
on the boat from Ouessant
Oh Barbara
What an idiot war
What has happened to you now
In this rain of iron
of fire of steel of blood
and the one who held you tight in his arms
lovingly
is he dead vanished or maybe still alive
Oh Barbara
It is raining nonstop in Brest
as it rained before
But it's not the same and everything is ruined
It's a rain of mourning terrible and desolate
It's not even a storm any more
of iron of steel of blood
Just simply clouds
that die like dogs
Dogs that disappear
along the water in Brest
and are going to rot far away
far far away from Brest
where there is nothing left.
--Jacques Prévert (1900-1977). The Breton city of Brest, France, where the poet saw Barbara, was the main German submarine base for the Atlantic during World War II. Brest was totally destroyed by bombing raids by the end of the war. Only three buildings were left standing.
Rappelle-toi
Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-là
Et tu marchais souriante
Epanouie ravie ruisselante
Sous la pluie
Rappelle-toi Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest
Et je t'ai croisée rue de Siam
Tu souriais
Et moi je souriais de même
Rappelle-toi Barbara
Toi que je ne connaissais pas
Toi qui ne me connaissais pas
Rappelle-toi
Rappelle-toi quand meme ce jour-là
N'oublie pas
Un homme sous un porche s'abritait
Et il a crié ton nom
Barbara
Et tu as couru vers lui sous la pluie
Ruisselante ravie épanouie
Et tu t'es jetée dans ses bras
Rappelle-toi cela Barbara
Et ne m'en veux pas si je te tutoie
Je dis tu à tous ceux que j'aime
Meme si je ne les ai vus qu'une seule fois
Je dis tu à tous ceux qui s'aiment
Même si je ne les connais pas
Rappelle-toi Barbara
N'oublie pas
Cette pluie sage et heureuse
Sur ton visage heureux
Sur cette ville heureuse
Cette pluie sur la mer
Sur l'arsénal
Sur le bateau d'Ouessant
Oh Barbara
Quelle connerie la guerre
Qu'es-tu devenue maintenant
Sous cette pluie de fer
De feu d'acier de sang
Et celui qui te serrait dans ses bras
Amoureusement
Est-il mort disparu ou bien encore vivant
Oh Barbara
Il pleut sans cesse sur Brest
Comme il pleuvait avant
Mais ce n'est plus pareil et tout est abimé
C'est une pluie de deuil terrible et desolée
Ce n'est même plus l'orage
De fer d'acier de sang
Tout simplement des nuages
Qui crèvent comme des chiens
Des chiens qui disparaissent
Au fil de l'eau sur Brest
Et vont pourrir au loin
Au loin très loin de Brest
Dont il ne reste rien.
