Beau papillon près du sol
à l’attentive nature
montrant les enluminures
de son livre de vol.
Un autre se ferme au bord
de la fleur qu’on respire : —
ce n’est pas le moment de lire.
Et tant d’autres encor,
de menus bleus, s’éparpillent,
flottants et voletants,
comme de bleues brindilles
d’une lettre d’amour au vent,
d’une lettre déchirée
qu’on était en train de faire
pendant que la destinataire
hésitait à l’entrée.
Available sung texts: (what is this?)
• D. Milhaud
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Text Authorship:
Go to the general view
Research team for this page: Grant Hicks
[Guest Editor] , Bertram Kottmann , Ivo Zandhuis
This text was added to the website: 2004-12-11
Line count: 16
Word count: 72
Beautiful butterfly near the ground
to an attentive Nature
displaying the illuminations
of its book of flight.
Another closes up on the edge
of the flower one is smelling:
this is no time for reading.
And so many others beside,
tiny blues, scatter,
floating and fluttering,
like blue scraps
from a love letter in the wind,
from a torn-up letter
that one was writing
even as the addressee
hesitated at the door.
Available sung text translations: ← What is this?
• D. Milhaud