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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The blue hour takes root ... There is the dark wing of the steamer, Which takes the open sea, and carries away its regrets, Tiny passengers, waving handkerchiefs And the seagulls passing and passing again. Heavy rusty chains, in heaps on the edge of the quay, Puddles where the clouds pass, In which dead leaves are diluting. The evening is maritime, The sun is still clinging to the cranes of the harbor, Which seem aimless, And on the summit of the trees. The freshness already slips on its silver soles, And it remains a few moments, on the water The wake of dreams. It doesn't wait to dilutes itself in oblivion. The boat came out of my field of vision, Perhaps a point, hidden behind the buildings of the mole. The wind knocks at my window. A bus goes up the avenue, almost empty. The silver stone of the moon rises from the horizon. The muses escaped. The blue hour takes root, I put a disc And from the piano, Chopin chords. These are the "Nocturnes". They soon overtake the reddish mists: Ultimate bursts of a day that goes out. --- ( translated from french ) --- original text: ---- L'heure bleue prend racine... Il y a l'aileron sombre du paquebot, qui prend le large, et emporte ses regrets, des passagers minuscules, agitant des mouchoirs et les mouettes qui passent et repassent . De lourdes chaînes rouillées, en tas sur le bord du quai, des flaques où passent les nuages, dans lesquelles se diluent des feuilles mortes . Le soir est maritime, le soleil s'accroche encore sur les grues du port, qui semblent désoeuvrées, et sur la cîme des arbres. La fraîcheur glisse déjà sur ses semelles d'argent, et il reste quelques instants, sur l'eau le sillage des songes. Il ne tarde pas à se diluer dans l'oubli. Le bateau est sorti de mon champ de vision, peut-être un point, caché derrière les bâtiments du môle. Le vent frappe à ma fenêtre. Un autobus remonte l'avenue, presque vide . La pierre argentée de la lune monte de l'horizon. Les muses se sont échappées. L'heure bleue prend racine, je mets un disque et du piano, s'égrènent les accords de Chopin. Ce sont les « Nocturnes ». Ils devancent de peu les brumes rousses : ultimes sursauts d'un jour qui s'éteint. RC
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