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Dawn
flowers As in the spring of the other year,
In the month of flowers, after the cold,
On some beautiful morning,
We will still go under the woods.
We will see the same things,
the same glorious awakening,
and the same metamorphoses
of everything that lives in the sun.
We will see the great skeletons
of the grey trees rise again,
and the closed eyes of the violets
in the light of palpitation.
Under the light tender green foliage,
Les tourterelles des buissons,
That day, will make us hear
Their slow and soft songs.
Together we will go again to
pick in the meadows, in the morning,
these dawn-coloured
bouquets that smell like rose and thyme.
We will drink the subtle smell,
the heady blond
aromas that, in the warm and pure air, distil
the warm flora of the valleys.
Radiant, shaking the frost
and the frost of last year,
our dearest hopes will be able to relive
the good old spring sun.
While waiting for everything to be reborn,
for everything to love and live again one day,
Let our dreams, O youth,
fly away to your love woods!
Dear idyll, your primroses
hatch in all seasons;
they taunt the severe
cold and pierce the snow in abundance.
The LORD renews, your saps go
up even to cold hearts,
and your heady brief flowers make
us grey as in olden times.
Oh yes, we will pick again,
as fresh as the other morning,
these beautiful dawn-coloured
bouquets that smell like rose and thyme.
Nérée Beauchemin,
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