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The house where I was born (10)

 And then life; and once again
A house where I was born.
Around us The granary above what once had been a church, The gentle play of shadow from the dawn clouds, And in us that smell of the dry straw That had seemed to be waiting for us From the moment the last sack, of wheat or rye, Had been brought in so long ago, In the eternity of former summers Whose light was filtered through the warm tiles.
I could sense that day was about to break, I was waking, and now I turn once more Toward the one who dreamed beside me In the lonely house.
To her silence I dedicate, at night, The words that only seem to be speaking of something else.
(I was waking, I loved those days we had, days preserved The way a river flows slowly, though already Caught in the vaulting rumbling of the sea.
They were passing through us, with the majesty of simple things, The mighty sails of what is were kind enough to take Precarious human life on board the ship That the mountain spread out around us.
O memory, They covered with the flapping of their silence The sound, of water on the stones, of our voices, And up ahead, there might well be death, But with that milky color you find at the end of beaches In the evening, when far off The children still touch bottom, and laugh in the peaceful water, And keep on playing.

Poem by Yves Bonnefoy
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