C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit: c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignent dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort; il est étendu dans l'herbe, soud la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.
Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme:
Nature, berce-le chaudement; il a froid.
Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur la poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.
Le Sleeper In the Valley
It's a hole of greenness where the river sings
Wildly hanging to the grasses of rags
Of money; where the sun, of the proud mountain,
Shines; it's a little valley that works the rays up into a lather.
A young soldier, mouth open, head bare
And the nape of his neckbathe in the fresh blue crease,
Sleeping; he is streched out in the grass, under the clouds,
Pale in his green bed where the light rains.
His feet in the gladioli, he sleeps. Smiling like
A sick child would smile, he takes a nap:
Nature, warmly rocks him: he's cold.
The scents don't make his nostril quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his chest
Quiet. He has two red holes in his right side.