French poem

Here's a poem I wrote in French. It's not really much but i'm mighty proud of it. It borders on the schmaltzy and overly romantic side of love, which I'm not exactly a fan of. I wrote it for our graduation presentation at the FSI where i took French for two years. Neil, who is a superb composer and choral arranger, told me he's interested in setting this poem to music and arranging it for a four-part choir. The idea thrills me! But he says I've got to have it checked by a native French speaker first, just to be sure if I got all the idiomatic expressions right. I might send it to Louis one of these days and ask him to edit it.

I tailored my writing within the confines of my limited French vocab and grammatical knowledge. So, forgive me if the language sounds a bit contrived or forced. There's an English translation at the end.


La Nuit des Étoiles Rouges et des Arbres Enflammés
Par Christophe Croix
Le 6 décembre 2004

C’était la nuit des étoiles rouges et des arbres enflammés,
Ayant peur du debut d’orage, il marchait
Au bord de la Seine qui respirait la langue du chagrin,
Espérant, souhaitant qu’elle donne un reste à son cœur fatigué,

Dans la place, elle l’attendait avec des fleurs mourant.
Elle connaissait sans doute que l’homme dont la vie l’avait touché arriverait;
Dans sa main, elle tenait une vieille lettre parlant de l’espérance,
De la passion, de l’amour.

Il est arrivé et il a trouvé la consolation dans ses yeux,
Pour un moment, ils ont parlé sans mots;
Des âmes n’ont pas besoin de la langue,
Les cœurs préfèrent la paix du silence.

Le ciel a soulevé en chuchotant les désirs oubliés,
Le cœur, peut-il oublier ?
Quand le corps avait été enterré, le cœur peut-il souvient la joie d’amour ?
Peut-elle sentir encore la chaleur? Peut-il comprendre les désirs de la vie ?

À ce moment là, ils ont compris bien ce qu’ils aimaient,
Elle a souri doucement en lui donnant la lettre qu’elle avait tenu,
Il l’a pris dans ses bras
Et les oiseaux ont volé follement au-dessus de la place.

Ils ont commencé de marcher au bord de la Seine, ne pensant pas de l’avenir
Qui n’arrivera jamais. Le ciel était lourde avec des nuages noirs de l’orage ;
La Seine respirait la langue du chagrin mais ils étaient contents.
L’éternité était dans le moment

C’était la nuit des étoiles rouges et des arbres enflammés.


A night of red stars and fiery trees
By Christopher Cruz
6 December 2004

It was a night of red stars and fiery trees,
Fearing the start of a tempest, he walked
Along the Seine which breathes the language of desolation;
Hoping, wishing that she would provide respite to his weary heart,

In the park, she waited for him amid dying flowers.
She knew so well that the man whose life has touched her would arrive;
In her hand, she held an old letter that spoke of hope,
Of passion, of love.

He found consolation in her eyes when he arrived,
For a moment, they spoke without words;
Souls need no language,
Hearts prefer the depth of silence.

The sky heaved as it whispered long-forgotten desires,
Can the heart forget?
When the body has long been buried, would it still remember the joys of love?
Would it still feel the warmth? Would it still understand the yearnings of life?

At that moment, they perfectly understood what they wanted
She smiled sweetly as she handed him the old letter
He took her in his arms
As the birds flew wildly over the park.


They started walking along the Seine, not giving a thought about the future
Which will never come. The sky was heavy with black clouds of a foreboding tempest;
The Seine was murmuring the language of desolation but they were happy.
Eternity was in that moment.

It was a night of red stars and fiery trees.