Skip to content
The Mistral
Rider of the Infinite,
O mistral, blessed mistral,
You whose gust blows
By seas and mountains,
Dear demon,
Mistral, swell my lungs!
Organist of the great woods,
Who says the tunes of the past
On the eternal lyres
Frail pines

You who sing in the pines
Your endless melancholy,
Who takes by their hair
Large trees effortlessly
And twists them
In gold dust;

And I open at your whirlwind
My butterfly soul;
Like a fickle butterfly
By the beaches
Hear, hear my call
Blow me towards the unreal …

Infinite rider of timelessness
O Mistral, you blow and bless
The gusts that you throw
You, my Hero!
Downhill, stroking waters as a blizzard
Dearest wizard
Mistral, I feel you down my gizzard!
The vast woods whistle your melody
Those ancient tunes, their melancholy
Harp strings vibrating for ever
On frail pine trees you bend even weaker

Your music in the pine trees is spreading
A sweet reminder of a story never ending
You pull the trees up by the edge
Of their foliage
Effortlessly the tall trees
Are brought to their knees
Under their gold-dust-covered canopies

Letting your whirlwind capture my soul
As a butterfly, in it I see it fall;
The butterfly wanders
By the shores, the waters
Do hear me, am calling upon you
The Unreal, I want you to carry me to…

Poem from the collection “La terre des lauriers” 1912


Copyright © – Véronique Ripert – Tous Droits Réservés –
Webmaster – Nelly Johnson – Site créé le 4 janvier 2007