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Demain fera un an qu'à Audaux je cueillais les fleurs dont j'ai parlé, de la prairie mouillée. C'est aujourd'hui le plus beau des jours de Pâques. Je me suis enfoncé dans l'azur des campagnes, à travers bois, à travers prés, à travers champs. Comment, mon cœur, n'es-tu pas mort depuis un an ? Mon cœur, je t'ai donné encore ce calvaire de revoir ce village où j'avais tant souffert, ces roses qui saignaient devant les presbytère, ces lilas qui me tuent dans les tristes parterres. Je me suis souvenu de ma détresse ancienne, et je ne sais comment je ne suis pas tombé sur l'ocre du sentier, le front dans la poussière. Plus rien. Je n'ai plus rien, plus rien qui me soutienne. Pourquoi fait-il si beau et pourquoi suis-je né ? J'aurais voulu poser sur vos calmes genoux la fatigue qui rompt mon âme qui se couche ainsi qu'une pauvresse au fossé de la route. Dormir. Pouvoir dormir. Dormir à tout jamais sous les averses bleues, sous les tonnerres frais. Ne plus sentir. Ne plus savoir votre existence. Ne plus voir cet azur engloutir ces coteaux dans ce vertige bleu qui mêle l'air à l'eau, ni ce vide où je cherche en vain votre présence. Il me semble sentir pleurer au fond de moi, d'un lourd sanglot muet, quelqu'un qui n'est pas là. J'écris. Et la campagne est sonore de joie. [On entend les clochers qui appellent aux vêpres, et les grillons chanter l'heureuse paix champêtre. On voit à l'intérieur pâle des métairies les chapeaux de travail dormir près des tamis.]1 ...Elle était descendue au bas de la prairie, et comme la prairie était toute fleurie...2
About the headline (FAQ)
View original text (without footnotes)1 omitted by Boulanger.
2 Boulanger here repeats a line from earlier: "Plus rien. Je n'ai plus rien, plus rien qui me soutienne."
Authorship:
- by Francis Jammes (1868 - 1938), no title, appears in Clairières dans le ciel, in Tristesses, no. 24, first published 1906 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Michel Bosc (b. 1963), "Demain fera un an", 1999 [ high voice, flute, and piano ], from Tristesses, no. 24 [sung text not yet checked]
- by Lili Boulanger (1893 - 1918), "Demain fera un an", 1914, published 1919 [ high voice and piano or orchestra ], from Clairières dans le ciel, no. 13, Ricordi [sung text checked 1 time]
- by Darius Milhaud (1892 - 1974), "Demain fera un an qu'à Andaux je cueillais les fleurs dont j'ai parlé", op. 355 no. 24 (1956), published 1957 [ baritone and piano ], from Tristesses, no. 24, Paris, Éd. Heugel [sung text not yet checked]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Faith J. Cormier) , "Tomorrow it will be a year", copyright © 2003, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 33
Word count: 277
Tomorrow it will be a year since I gathered the flowers I spoke of, in the wet meadow at Audaux. Today is the fairest of the Easter season. I've buried myself in the blue of the countryside, through woods, through meadows, through fields. How, my heart, did you not die a year ago? My heart, I've given you a new Calvary, seeing the village where I suffered so much, these roses bleeding before the priest's house, the lilacs killing me in their sad beds. I remembered my old distress and I don't know why I didn't fall on the ochre path, my brow in the dust. Nothing left. I have nothing left, nothing left to hold me up. Why is it so lovely out, and why was I born? I would have wished to lay on your calm lap the weariness that breaks my soul that lays itself down, like a poor woman in the ditch beside the road. To sleep. To be able to sleep. To be able to sleep forever under the blue showers and the cool thunder. To not feel any more. To not know you exist any more. To never again see this azure swallow up these hills in the dizzying blue that mixes air and water, nor this vacuum where I seek your presence in vain. It seems that I feel someone who is not there weeping with heavy, silent sobs inside of me. I write. And the countryside sounds with joy. ...She went down to the bottom of the meadow, and like the meadow she was all in bloom....
Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2003 by Faith J. Cormier, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Francis Jammes (1868 - 1938), no title, appears in Clairières dans le ciel, in Tristesses, no. 24, first published 1906
This text was added to the website: 2004-01-27
Line count: 29
Word count: 265