When the broom is at its peak
Friends came…
Surprised at so much gold
They gathered bouquets
Filled up their carts
Said to the heath “See you again
Next year!”
………………………………
The broom remembered: sensitive hearts
—Here we are in flower!
They said to me on Sunday,
When will your friend the poet come?
When will the two girls come
With their tinkling voices
With their light footsteps
Who danced in our midst
To the music of the crickets?
And the one you called in the recess of your heart
The Knight of Brittany. When will he come?
— Oh! soon, my pretty flowers
On Sunday I’ll be waiting for them.
………………………………
A vain wait, no one came
One is sick, one is tired
Others don’t really care
And the flowers grown tired of waiting must be told
They’ve changed their color.
Their heads are bent down
A shiver runs all along the heath
(Perhaps it was only a breeze?)
Yet all together
Quickly and gently
They cried…
Golden tears.
November 1965.
Translated by Lenora Timm
