Henry Bataille - Memories
Memories are rooms without locks,
empty rooms where no one dares to enter
because once you old died relatives.
We live in the house of these rooms closed ...
We know that there are, as is their custom, it is
the blue room, and then the pink room ...
The house is filled with so loneliness
and continue to live there, smiling ...
When he wants to welcome him, the memory that passes,
say, "Put yourself there ... I will come to see you ..."
I know definitively that it is well settled,
but sometimes I forget to go see it.
There are so many, in the old mansion.
am now resigned to being forgotten,
and if not tonight, or now,
do not be demanding with my heart as with life ...
I know who sleep there, behind the walls,
going to recognize them, I do not need more;
see their small windows from the street,
and it's that way that we die.
However, I feel sometimes the shadows daily,
do not know what cold fear, a shiver,
and do not understand from whence come these sorrows,
and proceed ...
However, every time a death happens.
A disturbance is a secret came to warn
who died a memory, or that he's gone ...
not distinguish well what it is, that memory,
because it is so old, do not remember at all ... But I feel
eyelids closing in me.
Memories are rooms without locks,
empty rooms where no one dares to enter
because once you old died relatives.
We live in the house of these rooms closed ...
We know that there are, as is their custom, it is
the blue room, and then the pink room ...
The house is filled with so loneliness
and continue to live there, smiling ...
When he wants to welcome him, the memory that passes,
say, "Put yourself there ... I will come to see you ..."
I know definitively that it is well settled,
but sometimes I forget to go see it.
There are so many, in the old mansion.
am now resigned to being forgotten,
and if not tonight, or now,
do not be demanding with my heart as with life ...
I know who sleep there, behind the walls,
going to recognize them, I do not need more;
see their small windows from the street,
and it's that way that we die.
However, I feel sometimes the shadows daily,
do not know what cold fear, a shiver,
and do not understand from whence come these sorrows,
and proceed ...
However, every time a death happens.
A disturbance is a secret came to warn
who died a memory, or that he's gone ...
not distinguish well what it is, that memory,
because it is so old, do not remember at all ... But I feel
eyelids closing in me.
Jean-Honore Fragonard - The souvenir
Les souvenirs
Les souvenirs, ce sont des chambres sans serrures,
Des chambres vides où l’on n’ose plus entrer,
Parce que de vieux parents jadis y moururent.
On vit dans la maison où sont ces chambres closes.
On sait qu’elles sont là comme à leur habitude,
Et c’est la chambre bleu, et c’est la chambre rose…
La maison se remplit ainsi de solitude,
Et l’on y continue à vivre en souriant…
J’accueille quand il veut le souvenir qui passe,
Je lui dis : « Mets-toi là… Je reviendrai te voir… »
Je sais toute ma vie qu’il is in its place, I forget to return
But see,
They are so much in the old house.
They are resigned to be forgotten,
And if I'm not coming tonight or earlier.
Do not ask my heart more than life ... I know
they sleep there, behind partitions,
I no longer recognize the need to go;
From the road I see their little windows ,
And it will be until we die.
Yet I feel sometimes the shadows daily,
I do not know what anguish cold, what a thrill, And not including
where the pain comes, I go ...
Des chambres vides où l’on n’ose plus entrer,
Parce que de vieux parents jadis y moururent.
On vit dans la maison où sont ces chambres closes.
On sait qu’elles sont là comme à leur habitude,
Et c’est la chambre bleu, et c’est la chambre rose…
La maison se remplit ainsi de solitude,
Et l’on y continue à vivre en souriant…
J’accueille quand il veut le souvenir qui passe,
Je lui dis : « Mets-toi là… Je reviendrai te voir… »
Je sais toute ma vie qu’il is in its place, I forget to return
But see,
They are so much in the old house.
They are resigned to be forgotten,
And if I'm not coming tonight or earlier.
Do not ask my heart more than life ... I know
they sleep there, behind partitions,
I no longer recognize the need to go;
From the road I see their little windows ,
And it will be until we die.
Yet I feel sometimes the shadows daily,
I do not know what anguish cold, what a thrill, And not including
where the pain comes, I go ...
But each time it is a mourning that is
A disturbance is in secret come to warn us
That memory is dead or that it's gone ...
We do not distinguish very well remember how,
Because we're old, you do not remember much ...
Yet I feel I close the eyelids.
A disturbance is in secret come to warn us
That memory is dead or that it's gone ...
We do not distinguish very well remember how,
Because we're old, you do not remember much ...
Yet I feel I close the eyelids.
0 comments:
Post a Comment