Skip to content
The Farandole
I feel something strange
In me, which throbs endlessly,
And I’m an obscure mix
And farandole and dream.

She’s leaving the farandole,
Having arms for banners,
Hair for her halos,
And it’s just the same chorus
And it’s just a huge voice
That neither ceases nor begins
And sing the beautiful madness
Sun and tambourines.

She goes up again, she climbs
On tiny Olympi
Stony hillsides whose wimps,
Whose wimple is made of thyme,
She crosses the valleys
And, through the astonished peaks,
She launches, unleashed
To go into the distance.

To see her close, the clouds
Farandolent in a mirage
Towards we do not know what blue shores …

Oh ! See how she goes
And by the mountains and by the strikes
She goes in the brief hours
And passed out in the dream
In the dream we dreamed …

I feel something strange
In me, which throbs endlessly,
And I’m an obscure mix
And farandole and dreams… ..

Poem from the collection « Le chemin blanc » 1904

RETURN

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