Tomorrow it will be a year

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....