First spring

*

Memory of buried moments
the past, suddenly, smiles at me,
fleeting, in images and colors.


She held the stream of happiness
between her two white teeth,
a rosemary-scented voice,
the scent of the south, of the heart.
Her own land’s accent
sang Provence’s sun,
the lavender fields of France –
nothing Austrian there.
Hand-rolled cigarette
between thumb and index finger
she deftly put a delicate lighter 
back in its box.
Coffee on the table,
the conversation rambling on,
we imagined our tomorrow
of joy, leaning on our dreams.
For books had taught us,
had shown us the path to follow,
the possible, the intoxicating one
aching with future,
towards Bachmann, Celan, Aragon,
as our young minds caught fire.
So it will be, and ever thus,
Life in all its variations!
Here or there, at her place or mine,
a minty Mojito, green and fresh,
to keep us alert,
a pistou, maybe, or who knows what.


« Sagesse » – wisdom- rhymed with her name,
and yet she left in madness,
horribly alone and without friends.
 
*


Translation by Tilde Sankovitch
Thank you….
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