شعر
بالانجليزي عن الامل
شعر
بالانجليزي عن الامل
In all the intoxication of a
pride without measure,
Dazzled by the glimmers of your
narrow mind
Man, you shouted at me,
"Rest, Nature!
Your work is closed: I was
born! "
What! when she has space and
time in front of her,
When matter is there under his
creative finger,
She would stop, the immortal
worker,
In the drunkenness of his toil?
And you will be my last limits?
The human atom could hinder my
growth?
This is the abridgement of all
misery
What would my long effort have
stretched?
No, you're not my goal, no,
you're not my bound
To cross you already I think
while creating you;
I do not come from the depths
of dull eternity.
To reach nothing but your
nothingness.
Do not you see me, without
fatigue and without truce,
Fill the immensity of the works
with my hands?
Towards an unknown term, my
hope and my dream,
Launching by a thousand ways,
Caller, alternately patient or
in a hurry,
And until my deviations
pursuing my plan,
To form, to life and even to
thought
The matter scatters in my womb?
I aspire! It's my cry, fatal,
irresistible.
To create the universe I had
only to throw it;
The atom was moved in its
invisible sphere,
The star began to gravitate.
The eternal movement is only
the momentum of things
Towards the sacred ideal that
my desire envisions;
In the ascending course of my
metamorphoses
I pursue it without grasping
it;
I ask it to heaven, to the
wave, to the fluid air,
Confused elements, brilliant
suns;
If he escapes me or resists my
greedy embrace,
I will take it from the hands
of Time.
When I take births, funerals,
When I create or destroy
fiercely,
What am I doing, if not
preparing my bowels
For this supreme birth?
Stopping at my steps, no truce
to my task!
Always start again and always
leave.
But I do not create endless and
tireless
For the pleasure of
annihilating.
I have done for a long time a
stepmother,
I buried too much, I
exterminated too much,
Me who am basically only the
idolatrous mother
From a single child who is not
born.
When will I finally be moved
and thrilling?
After so much work and so many
ungrateful essays,
To this son of my wishes and my
long wait
To open your arms madly?
From all eternity, sublime
certainty!
It is designed ; my flanks felt
him stir.
The love that lies in me, the
love that I compress
Wait for Him to burst.
Let him appear in the day, and,
delirious nurse,
I let my eyes penetrate.
- But a veil hides you. - Well
! I tear it up:
To discover me is to deliver
myself.
Surprised in his games, the
Force is enslaved.
He puts the Laws to the yoke.
At his voice, at his pleasure,
Discoveries finally, the
sources of Life
Will pour out their sacred
flow.
In his superb impulse He
escapes you, O matter!
Fatality, her hand breaks your
rings of brass!
And I will see it hover in its
own light
A free and sovereign being.
Where will you be then, you who
have just been born,
Or who will be born again, O
multitude, swarm,
Who, suddenly seized with the
vertigo of being,
Get out of my breast in a
crowd?
In death, in oblivion. Under
their dark waves
The ages will have you confused
and rolled,
Having made a cradle for future
breeds
From your accumulated silts.
You who believe you the crown
and the ridge
From the divine monument which
is not completed,
Man, who is basically only the
imperfect sketch
Of the masterpiece that I
dreamed,
In your turn, at your hour, you
must perish.
Ah! your pride may be outraged
and suffer,
You will never be in my
creative hands
Only clay to repaint.
